And off went Pet. A very few minutes brought her to the cottage. Alighting from her horse, she rapped more decorously than was her wont, fearing to alarm Erminie.
Softly a window was raised above, and a night-capped head and a sooty face was popped out and a frightened voice demanded:
“Who’s dar?”
“It’s me, Lucy—Pet Lawless. Come down and open the door.”
“Golly!—What on yeth brings dat little debbil here, this onsarcumcised hour ob de night?” muttered Lucy, as she popped her black head in again, and shut down the window.
A moment after, and the door was opened by Lucy and Pet admitted. Lucy held a lamp in her hand, which displayed her in her robe de nuit, and showing more black ankles than grace.
“Now, then! Is Ray in bed?” abruptly demanded Petronilla.
But Lucy, who expected this nocturnal visit was to announce some one was dead, or dying, on hearing this indecorous question, set down her lamp in silence, and looked scandalized and indignant.
“Well—don’t you hear me? Is Ray in bed?” repeated our impatient Nimrod, in a higher key.
“Miss Pet Lawsliss,” said Lucy, drawing herself up stiffly, and forgetting that her costume was more light than dignified, “you may t’ink dis yer is mighty fine, to come at de dead hours ob de night, to ax if young mars’r’s in bed, but it’s somefin I wouldn’t do, ef I is brack. Bress my soul! I’s allers tooken care not to be cotched in sich wices; but young ladies, now-a-days, as have no ’spect for demselves, can’t be ’spected—”