When I spoke of the flash of light before which the man had quailed, and which had revealed the face of a woman, pale and sad, bending over it—
"Weel done, Peggy!" roared the farmer; "'tis no but Peggy wi' t' lanthorn, lass,"—again to his wife.
"She's a good 'un," responded the lady from the kitchen.
"Who are the Boggart and Peggy?" I asked; "they seem to be intimate acquaintances of yours."
The great Yorkshireman did not answer, but whiffed away, with his dreamy eyes fixed on the fire.
"So t' Boggart thowt to ha' hugged thee down Pothoile!" Then he laughed. "I reckon," mused he again, "I reckon he were a bit flayed to see Peggy come anent him that road!"
"I wish," said I, "that you would tell me all about him and her."
"So I will, lad, bi'm bye, if thou'rt boune to Arncliffe to-neet." He looked up at me. "We can gi' thee a bed if thou likes: it's no but a poor one, but it's none so bad—eh, lass?" The last two words were shouted to his wife.
"Ay, ay," she replied from the kitchen.
"Thank you very kindly," said I; "if it were not for my friend at Arncliffe, I would accept your offer with alacrity; but as it happens, I must return there to-night."