'Go and finish your work, Lucy,' Mary said. 'Strive after a gentler and more patient spirit. It fills me with foreboding when you give your tongue such licence.'
'Mary!' Lucy said, with a sudden vehemence. 'Mary! I heard you sobbing last night—I know I did. I heard you praying for help. Oh! Mary, I love you—I love you, and I would fain know why you are more unhappy than you were a while agone. Has it aught to do with that black, dreadful man I saw on the hill?'
'Do not speak of him—not a soul must know of him. Promise, Lucy!' Mary said.
'But George Ratcliffe knows how he scared me that day, though he did not see him. He said he would track him out and belabour him as he deserved.'
And now, before Mary could make any rejoinder, Ambrose was calling from the head of the stairs,—
'Mother, I am tired of staying here, let me come down.'
'Yes, come, Ambrose,' Mary said, 'mother's work is over, and she can have you now near her.'
The child was the next minute in his mother's arms.
Mary covered him with kisses.
'And you have stayed in my chamber for these two hours?' she said. 'My good, brave boy!'