David’s hand dropped from the latch and he darted to the kitchen window and peered in the room.
By the dim light of the fire he could make out the old man’s form in its accustomed place, and rapped sharply at the pane.
“Eh?” cried Grandfather Legg.
“Be every one out?” shouted David. “Where’s Rebecca?”
The old man leaned forward so that the firelight fell full upon his shrivelled face; his habitually vacant eyes wore a cunning look and he laughed again, as though amused by some secret joke.
David uplifted his voice once more and in his excitement shook the little casement. “Look at me!” he cried. “Don’t ye know me, Mr. Legg? It’s me—David Samson.”
“Oh, I know ye,” chuckled Mr. Legg. “I know ye, David.”
“Right!” cried David, delighted at having extracted an intelligible response. “Then tell me where’s Rebecca? I’ve come a long way to see her. Which way has she gone? I be talkin’ of Rebecca, Mr. Legg.”
“E-es,” rejoined the other, still chuckling; “oh, e-es, Rebecca—surely.”
“Where is she, I say?” shouted David.