'Have you seen that young man before, Quince?'
'He brings up game for your uncle, sometimes, Miss, and lends a hand in the garden, I believe.'
'Do you know his name, Mary?'
'They call him Tom, I don't know what more, Miss.'
'Tom,' I called; 'please, Tom, come here for a moment.'
Tom turned about, and approached slowly. He was more civil than the Bartram people usually were, for he plucked off his shapeless cap of rabbit-skin with a clownish respect.
'Tom, what is your other name,—Tom what, my good man?' I asked.
'Tom Brice, ma'am.'
'Haven't I seen you before, Tom Brice?' I pursued, for my curiosity was excited, and with it much graver feelings; for there certainly was a resemblance in Tom's features to those of the postilion who had looked so hard at me as I passed the carriage in the warren at Knowl, on the evening of the outrage which had scared that quiet place.
''Appen you may have, ma'am,' he answered, quite coolly, looking down the buttons of his gaiters.