“Why, it’s all black, as if you’d been—”
“Why, Master Scar, what yer been a-doing to your hair?”
“Hair? My hair?”
“Yes, sir. Them Roundhead vagabonds cut it all off before, but now it’s all scorched and singed away.”
“Eh? Yes. I suppose so,” said Scarlett, sadly. “I did not know, Nat. I suppose it was in the fire.”
“And your face all scorched too.”
“Is it, Nat? I did feel that it smarted and was sore.”
“Why, my poor dear lad, what have you been a-doing of? And me not with you, but lying here like a pig in a sunny hole, pretending I was bad!”
“Hush! not so loud. Never mind the singeing, Nat. There, keep quiet till I come back with some food. Do you want a drink of water?”
“Food? What did you say about some food?”