“Lor’, no, Miss Judy!—which I beg your pardon. Mistress Hay; but I do be forgetting sometimes. Neither me nor mine was ever any great hand at letter writing. And she was doing well at the vicarage, I knowed. And I was wandering about, seeking of my fortin, which I never yet found, though I might have found it the very next blow of my pick, for aught I know, if I had had the parsaverance to stay, which I couldn’t have after the boys here left, and so for twenty years I haven’t heard a word of my niece. She may be dead, poor wench; for death is no respecter of persons, though she was a fine, strapping, strong wench, too. Yes, that is so.”
“I hope not. I hope she is alive and well for your sake. Where did you say you left her at service?”
“At the vicarage, ma’am, in my native town, ma’am.”
“And what town was that?”
“Medge, ma’am. In Hantz, on the south coast, where I was born and riz.”
Judy had started at the first mention of Medge. Now she hastily inquired:
“What was the name of the vicar?”
“One Rev. Mr. Campbell, ma’am; the Rev. Mr. James Campbell. He came from Scotland, horridonally; but settled into the south coast of England. Yes, that was so.”
By this time Ran was listening with the deepest interest to the words of old Dandy, but leaving Judy to sustain the conversation.
“Why, Mr. Quin, we know who he is,” she gayly exclaimed.