"It is droll I haven't seen him," said the boy, "but I dare say he is vexed about his dog."
"Why, what has happened to the dog?" asked Widow Lamb. "He took it out with him this morning early."
"Ay, but the people of Tarningham killed it for a mad dog," said Billy Lamb, "I dare say the poor beast was not mad at all. I saw it afterwards and knew it directly; but I have seen nothing of Stephen."
"He is up at Sir John's," said Widow Lamb, "and I dare say is waiting till the young lord comes down from London."
"No, that can't be, mother," replied her son, "for the gentleman came down yesterday evening; one of our post-boys drove him."
"That's very odd," said Widow Lamb, "I wonder Stephen has not come back then. I hope nothing's the matter."
"Oh, dear no," replied the deformed lad; "you know Ste was always fond of wandering about, and would, at times, be out for a couple of days together; but I wanted to tell him that I have found out nothing about that Captain Moreton, except that he is going away from the cottage somewhere to-night. I did not see him myself, when I took up the letters to him to-day; but the servant-girl told she had been sent up to Buxton's Inn to order a chaise, and that it was to be down there just at nightfall."
"Ay, ill birds fly at night," said Widow Lamb; "but I wish Stephen would come home, for he has been now gone well-nigh twelve hours."
"Oh, he is safe enough, mother," reiterated her son, "it is not like if it were night-time, or winter either--but I must get back; for there will be all the supper-beer to carry out;" and, after a few more words, he departed.
Hour after hour, however, went by; and Stephen Gimlet did not appear, till the good old lady's apprehensions increased every minute. She put the boy to bed and sat up and watched; but eight, nine, ten o'clock came, and no one approached the cottage-door. A terribly anxious night was that which followed; and, though about midnight Widow Lamb went to bed, sleep did not visit her eyes for some hours. She lay and revolved all, that could have happened. She was anxious for her son-in-law; anxious for the result of his mission to Beauchamp; and she had resolved to set off early on the morrow morning for Tarningham Park, taking the boy with her. At about half-past three, however, weariness overpowered the old woman, and she slept. Her frame was not very strong; and, exhausted with both watching and anxiety, the slumber that fell upon her was profound and long. The first thing that awoke her was the little boy pulling her by the arm and saying, "Granny, granny, you are a sluggard now, as you called me the other day. I am very hungry, I want my breakfast."