She whipped her hooded cloak from its peg, flung it loosely over her shoulders; and, casting another glance towards the sleeper in the chair, was about to set forth on her half-spoken errand; when, just at that moment, the lurcher gave out his note of alarm.
The intoxicated deer-stealer heard the bark; stirred slightly on his seat; muttered some incoherent syllables; and wandered off into a fresh maze of drunken dreaming.
“If it should be Will coming back?” said Bet, moving on tiptoe towards the door; “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
“Thank the stars, it’s not! Some one from the direction of Stone Dean! Oh! if it should be—”
An exclamation of disappointment interrupted the speech, as a tall, motley-clad figure, a dark-skinned face, and black bushy whiskers presented themselves a short distance off, under the branches of the trees.
“It’s that new friend of father’s—his friend, too,” muttered the girl. “I heard them say he was at the Dean last night. Perhaps he can tell? Maybe he comes—”
“Morrow, my gurl!” saluted Gregory Garth, interrupting Bet’s speculations as to the object of his visit. “Niceish weather. Old bird back to his roost yet?”
“My father, you mean?” rejoined Bet, not showing any displeasure at the bizarre style, either of the salute, or the interrogatory.
“Why, sartin, I means him. Theer an’t no other old bird as belongs to this nest, be there? At home, eh?”
“He is. He’s asleep in his chair. You see him there?”