“Abow!” said I; “what does he mean?”
“Sure he’s the blacksmith, my lard.”
“And what are you?”
“I’m Ody, plase your honour; the short for Owen.”
“And what is your trade?”
“Trade, plase your honour! I was bred to none, more than another; but expects, only that my mother’s not willing to part with me, to go into the militia next month; and I’m sure she’d let me, if your honour’s lordship would spake a word to the colonel, to see to get me made a serjeant immadiately.”
As Ody made his request, all his companions came forward in sign of sympathy, and closed round my horse’s head to make me sinsible of their expectations; but at this instant Ellinor came up, her old face colouring all over with joy when she saw me.
“So, Ellinor,” said I, “you were affronted, I hear, and left the castle in anger?”
“In anger! And if I did, more shame for me—but anger does not last long with me any way; and against you, my lord, dear, how could it? Oh, think how good he is, coming to see me in such a poor place!”
“I will make it a better place for you, Ellinor,” said I. Far from being eager to obtain promises, she still replied, that “all was good enough for her.” I desired that she would come and live with me at the castle, till a better house than her present habitation could be built for her; but she seemed to prefer this hovel. I assured her that she should be permitted to light my fire.