"Only as a sister should think of an absent brother," returned Dorothy, ashamed of the subterfuge. "As Gilbert himself wishes me to remember him."
"I b'lieve you ha' a hankering arter the lad yet," said Rushmere, tartly. "Dorothy, do'ant cross that stile, or maybe you'll get into a bad road, an' be left sticking in the mud. It won't do. It won't do, lass. I will never gi' my consent."
He shook his head, settled himself in his deep leather-backed chair, and puffed away vigorously at his pipe.
"Wait, father, till I ask you for it. If ever I marry Gilbert, it will be your own doing. The time may come when you may both regret that I was not his wife."
Her speech was interrupted by a loud rap at the door. Pincher sprang up from the hearth-stone, where he lay basking at Dorothy's feet, with a fierce yell, as if he had received a mortal injury by having his comfortable nap disturbed, and rushed to the heavily barred door, barking furiously.
"Some one has lost their way on the heath," said Dorothy, laying her hand upon the strong iron bolt that secured the door. "It is a bad night to be abroad, father; shall I let them in?"
"In coorse."
"Ask first, Dolly, who they be, an' what they want," suggested his more cautious wife.
Pincher again lifted up his voice, as if he had a right to be heard in the consultation, and in deep spasmodic fits of barking, remonstrated against admitting strangers at that unreasonable hour.