"Kind John Doane, how shall I repay you?"
She buried her face and wept.
The cheerful crackle of a fagot fire came from the kitchen grate, long spurts of yellow light outlined upon the wall Mrs. Doane's figure as she danced the youngest toddler on her knee, and Margaret fell asleep to the words:
"Dance to your daddy,
My bonny babby;
Dance to your daddy,
Do, dear, do-o!
You'll get a wee bit fishie,
In a wee bit dishie,
And a whirligigie,
And a buttered scone!"
CHAPTER XII.
ST. UDO BRAND NOT DEAD.
Margaret was sitting up at last in the bricklayer's doorway, muffled in shawls, and shuddering nervously at every jarring sound about her.
A chariot was approaching the bricklayer's cottage from the village of Lynthorpe, and on its panel glittered the arms of Castle Brand.
Already the coachman, Symonds, had seen the invalid at the door, and was talking to some one inside, and in the next minute the chariot was drawn up before the door, and the familiar figure of little Dr. Gay was stepping out.