'Maister! dear maister!'
With the start, the gun was discharged, but not through his heart; the bullet whizzed past his ear, and penetrated the roof.
Then ensued silence for a minute. Herring was leaning back, hardly knowing what had happened, and whether he were alive or dead.
The smoke filled the little room. As it cleared away, his eyes saw Joyce.
'Maister! sure you have frighted of me dreadful; but—I've a brought'y the stockings.'
He did not speak. He understood nothing.
'Dear maister! what be thicky gun for? Did'y think I were a robber, and you fired at me? No, no! I be no robber, I be come a long way. See! I ha' done it all myself. I sed as I would. I've a brought'y a pair o' stockings all of my own knitting.'
He remained speechless.
'Look!' she persisted; 'put thicky gashly gun away. There be no robbers here; I be your Joyce, your own poor Joyce. Look! the stockings be warm, of lambswool, and vitty, and I did knit mun every bit and croom myself.'
CHAPTER XLV.