At the end of a fortnight I could go about a little, but the wounds in the shoulder did not properly heal, and I recovered strength but slowly.
One day as I sat out on the lawn in front of the house, Luke near me, busied in cleaning a gun, an old woman, with a tattered shawl over her head and a basket on her arm, came feebly up the drive, now and then coughing asthmatically. In a wheezing voice she begged to be allowed to show me the contents of her basket. Luke gave her his stool, which she accepted with profuse gratitude, and then asked for a drink of water.
"Bring her a cordial, Luke," I said, as he went off to the kitchen.
As soon as he was out of hearing, the old woman said in Bess Boswell's voice.
"Send him away again when he returns. I must have a private word with you."
Sure enough, now I looked narrowly at her, I recognised the eyes, but the rest of the face was that of an aged woman.
"What is the meaning of this mummery, Bess?" I asked.
"Have you forgotten what I told you? It is dangerous for me to be seen speaking to you," she replied.
"No; but I can't for the life of me understand the danger," said I.
"Certainly you can't; but that does not alter the fact," answered she, in a tone rather scornful of my sagacity, I thought.