Unnerved by this terrible idea she rent the stillness with a series of muffled shrieks and sobs:—
“Oh, Sam, Sam! Oh, dear Sam! Oh, Sam, come out, come out! Whatever shall I do? Sam, come out!”
Her tears were flowing so fast that she was obliged to have recourse to her apron, and, enveloped in its folds and overcome by increasing grief, failed to hear the series of heavy thuds which denoted the rapid approach of the figure which had suddenly emerged from the church-porch.
Could any spirit be endowed with such a pair of sturdy arms as those which were now thrown about her, or be capable of bestowing such resounding and fervent salutes as those which were presently rained on brow and cheeks? Martha uttered one blood-curdling yell, and then stood still.
“Why, my pretty,” cried Sam’s voice, which sounded very real and comfortable, “what be all this shindy? Have anybody been a-frightenin’ of ye? Have that rascal Bob been up to any games?”
Still clutching her in a tight embrace, he looked fiercely round.
“Bob!” ejaculated Martha. “Bob! Why what should he—” She broke off suddenly, adding with a wail of recurrent anguish: “Oh, Sam—oh, Sam, ye don’t know what I’ve a-seen this night! There, my heart be fair broke. I can never tell ’ee, but if ye knowed!”
“Nonsense, my maid,” cried Sam with a reassuring squeeze. “Ye haven’t seen nothing at all. I’ve been a-sittin’ in church-porch all the time an’ nothin’ have come nigh the place.”
“What!” gasped Martha, “’twas yourself—your own self as comed here—I—did think ’twas your sperret. Why whatever made ye walk so queer?”
With a chuckle Sam uplifted a large broad foot protected only by a stocking.