“You’ve got it, Mr. Bram, you’ve got it, Ah believe!” cried she in a tumult of feeling. “Oh, for sure that’s reght; and our poor little lass is as innocent of it as t’ new-born babe!”
Full of this idea, Bram conceived the thought of making inquiries at Meg’s own home, and he started at once with this object.
It was now very late, past eleven o’clock; but his uneasiness was too great to allow him to leave the matter till the morning. So, at the risk of reaching the farmhouse, where Meg’s parents lived, when everybody was in bed, he took a short cut across the wet, muddy fields, and arrived at his destination within an hour.
The rain had ceased by this time, and the moon peeped out from time to time, and from behind a mass of straggling clouds. The little farm lay in a nook between two hills, and as Bram drew near he saw that a light was still burning within. In getting over a gate he made a little noise, and the next moment he saw a woman’s figure come quickly out of the farmhouse.
“Meg, is that you, Meg?” asked a woman’s voice anxiously.
“No,” said Bram, “it isn’t Meg, ma’am. It’s me, from Hessel, come to ask if she’d got safe home.”
She came nearer, and peered into his face.
“And who be you?”
“My name’s Bram Elshaw. I’m a friend of the Birons at Duke’s Farm.”
“Ah!”