"The young rascal!" he cried joyfully; "fancy his never having told me he'd got a letter from his Worship, and me expecting that letter for the last three days, and getting stomach-ache with worry at its not coming! And saying he was off to a certain place, too! A nice fright he's given me. But thank'ee, gaffer, thank'ee kindly. And here's something for you to drink the health of Master Ranulph Chanticleer," and with a heart as light as a bird's, he began to retrace his steps down the valley.
But what was that faint sound behind him? It sounded suspiciously like the Ho, ho, hoh! of that impudent Willy Wisp, who for a short time, had been one of his Worship's grooms.
He stopped, and looked round. No one was visible except the old goatherd in the distance, leaning on his stick. What he had heard could have been nothing but the distant tinkle of the goat bells.
When he reached the farm, he found it in a tumult. The little boys had frightened Hazel out of her wits, and confirmed her worst fears by the news that "Master Ranulph had run away towards the hills, and that Master Hempen had run after him."
"Granny!" cried Hazel, wringing her hands, "a messenger must be sent off post-haste to the Seneschal!"
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the widow, angrily. "You mind your own business, miss! Long before any messenger could reach Lud, the lads will be back safe and sound. Towards the hills, indeed! That Luke Hempen is a regular old woman. It's just a bit of Master Ranulph's fun. He's hiding behind a tree, and will jump out on them with a 'Boo!' Never in my life have I heard so much fuss about nothing." And then, turning to the farm-servants, who were clustering round the children with scared, excited eyes, she bade them go about their business, and let her hear no more nonsense.
Her words sounded like good sense, but, for all that, they did not convince Hazel. Her deep distrust of the widow was almost as old as herself, and her instinct had told her for some time that the widow was hostile to Ranulph.
Never for a moment did Hazel forget that she, not the widow, was the rightful owner of the farm. Should she for once assert her position, and, in direct defiance of the widow, report what had happened to the law-man of the district and send a messenger to Master Nathaniel?
But, as everybody knows, legal rights can be but weaklings—puny little child princes, cowed by their bastard uncles, Precedent and Seniority.
No, she must wait till she was of age, or married, or ... was there any change of condition that could alter her relations with the widow, and destroy the parasite growth of sullen docility which, for as long as she could remember, had rotted her volition and warped her actions?