“Of course,” he said, complacently, as he smiled down at her. “But what are you afraid of?”
“Oh; nothing,” she whispered; “it’s because I’m weak and foolish. Oh, Rob, how grand it must be to feel big, and strong and brave. It was some time before we went away, I was out walking, and a man came out from among the hazel bushes.”
“Eh?” growled Rolph.
“It was that dreadful poacher who used to be about, and he asked for money, and I gave him some, dear, and then he became insulting, and tried to catch me in his arms, but I shrieked out and he ran away.”
“Caleb Kent?” growled Rolph.
“I think that is what he was called,” said Marjorie timidly; “but I need not be afraid of him now, need I, Rob?”
“You may be afraid for him,” said Rolph, fiercely; “for so sure as ever we meet any night, and he is poaching, I shall have an accident with my gun.”
“But you won’t kill him, Rob. Don’t do that, dearest; it would be too dreadful.”
“No; I won’t kill him if I can help it. That would be too bad, eh? I won’t nail his ears to the pump.”
“Ah, my darlings! here still,” said Mrs Rolph, who entered, smiling, but with the tears trickling down her cheeks. “Madge, my child, what has become of my salts—you know, the cut-glass bottle with the gold top.”