“What means he, Phil?” questioned the squire.
“Now you’ve been an’ told the whole thing,” exclaimed Philemon, looking very much alarmed.
“Not I,” replied the servant. “’T is for you to tell it, man, if ’t is to be told.”
“Have done with such mingle-mangle talk,” ordered Mr. Meredith, fretfully. “Is ’t not enough to have French gibberish in the world, without—”
“Charles,” interrupted Mrs. Meredith, “who gave thee this letter?”
“Ask Miss Meredith,” Fownes responded, again smiling.
“It must be Mr. Evatt,” said Janice. Then as the bond-servant turned sharply and looked at her, she became conscious that she was colouring. “I wish there was no such thing as a blush,” she moaned to herself,—a wish in which no one seeing Miss Meredith would have joined.
”’T was not from Mr. Evatt,” denied the servant.
Without time for thought, Janice blurted out, “Then ’t is from you?” and the groom nodded his head.
“What nonsense is this?” cried Mr. Meredith. “Dost mean to say ’t is from ye? Whence came the picture?”