"So thee has ventured out, my daughter!" he said, with his kindly voice and kindlier smile. "I am glad to see thee able to leave thy room once more."
"Yes; the day was so fine and the sunshine so bright and warm, I could not resist the temptation," said Christie. "I see you have been shooting with good success."
"Yes; game is plenty in our woods," he answered, replacing his gun on a couple of hooks in the porch. "But thee had better come in now; it is not good for thee to sit too long in the hot sun, thee knows."
Christie rose half reluctantly and followed him into the house.
The man drew a low wicker rocking-chair close to the open window, and said:
"Sit thee there, child. I know invalids, like thee, like to rock back and forward; it's very quieting to the feelings. I must get the dinner, now."
"Let me help you," said Christie, anxious to be useful. "Let me get the dinner."
"By no means, daughter," said the man, with his pleasant smile; "thee is too weak to work yet, and besides, I have nothing else to do. Sit thee down there, for, now that thee is strong enough to bear it, I want to have a little talk with thee."
Christie sank anxiously into the chair, and waited for what was to come. The man took a brace of partridges out of his bag, and, placing them on the table, drew up his chair, and began taking off the feathers and conversing with Christie at the same time.
"First, my daughter, I should like to know what is thy name?"