'Well, thanks; and to-morrow I'll either stride over for it myself or send some one. Now, you'll direct me to the camp, won't you?'
'Ay, ay, sir, and you've a good stick and a stout heart, so nothing can come o'er ye. But what way did nobody meet you, sir?'
'Nat Lee said he would send some one, but—hallo! who is this?'
She ran along the platform hurriedly but smiling—a little nervously perhaps, blinking somewhat moreover, for the sun's last beams lit up her face and eke her yellow hair. Her colour seemed to rise as she advanced. Blushing? No. Lotty Lee was barely twelve.
'Oh, please, sir, are you Mr Blake?'
'I am. And you?'
'Me? I'm only Lotty Lee, and that's nobody. But father sent me to meet you, and lead you home to our pitch across the Whinny Moor. You couldn't find the way by yourself, never, never, never!'
'Good-night, sir.—Good-night, Miss Lotty,' cried the porter, throwing the portmanteau on his shoulder and marching off with it.
'Well,' said the young fellow, 'I have a sweet little guide anyhow; but are you sure that even you can find the way yourself, Lotty?'
'Oh yes, Mr Blake, please.'