“Have ye got tea in that there basket?” inquired Robert, still sternly.
“’Tisn’t made yet,” she replied, “but kettle ’ull boil in a minute.” She pulled the basket towards her and unpacked it with great rapidity.
“So that’s the kettle, is it?” commented Robert, as a sooty object came to light, partially enveloped in a newspaper. He weighed it in his hand. “There’s nought in it—eh, I see you’ve got water in yon bottle. Shall I fill it?”
She nodded, and then making a pounce on a small bottle of milk, endeavoured to uncork it. As the cork did not yield, she was preparing to loosen it with her teeth when Robert interposed.
“Here, hand o’er! What mun ye go breakin’ your teeth for,” he inquired gruffly; “ye’ll noan find it so easy to get more when they’re gone—more o’ the same mak’ as how ’tis. They’re as white as chalk—and chalk’s easy broke.”
He produced a large clasp-knife, and selecting a corkscrew from the multiplicity of small implements which were attached to it, drew out the cork with a flourish. But the sight of the knife, which had been a present from his former master, recalled graver thoughts, and it was in a harsh admonitory tone that he next spoke:—
“’Tis all very well for once,” he said; “this ’ere tay-party mun be overlooked for this time, I reckon; but there mun be no more on ’em. Do ye hear, lass? These ’ere woods is private, and Squire doesn’t intend no young wenches to go trapesin’ about in ’em o’ neets, talkin’ to the owls and that. I doubt ye don’t go lookin’ for bats and owls alone,” went on the keeper in a tone of ferocious banter. “I doubt some young chap——”
“Oh, don’t!” interrupted she, flushing fiery red, “I can’t bear it!”
And to his surprise and distress she burst into tears.
“Eh, don’t ye cry, my lass!” he exclaimed with deep concern. “Whatever have I said to hurt ye? I ax your pardon. I meant no harm—no harm at all. Give over, there’s a good lass.”