The cottage of the old woman was a tumble-down affair, with doors and windows all awry, and the thatch hanging loose and all but off in many places. We dismounted and met the dwarf in the doorway.
“Hist,” he said, cautioning silence with his raised finger.
“Has he come?” asked a feeble voice from inside.
“The noise of the horses must have waked her,” explained Louis. “Come in.”
We entered the low, desolate looking room. On a pallet in one corner lay Meg of the Hills. The patroon went to her and took her hand with something like affection in his manner.
“How is the day with you, my Meg?”
“My Meg,” she repeated plaintively. “It is a long time since you have called me that.”
“Hist, Meg, not so loud,” said the patroon in a half-whisper.
“Why should I hist?” she cried with a tinge of anger in her tone. “Are you ashamed of me?”
The patroon made no reply, and in a moment she repeated her question.