CHAPTER LVII
THE LETTER
'Come away, lass,' whispered Beauty, very pale; 'he's here—Tom Brice.'
And she led the way, shoving aside the leafless underwood, and we reached Tom. The slender youth, groom or poacher—he might answer for either—with his short coat and gaitered legs, was sitting on a low horizontal bough, with his shoulder against the trunk.
'Don't ye mind; sit ye still, lad,' said Meg, observing that he was preparing to rise, and had entangled his hat in the boughs. 'Sit ye still, and hark to the lady. He'll take it, Miss Maud, if he can; wi' na ye, lad?'
'E'es, I'll take it,' he replied, holding out his hand.
'Tom Brice, you won't deceive me?'
'Noa, sure,' said Tom and Meg nearly in the same breath.
'You are an honest English lad, Tom—you would not betray me?' I was speaking imploringly.