“What!” exclaimed Miss Rosalind, “do you mean you’re to be turned out? Who dares to do such a thing?”
“You go and ask Mr Pottinger, if you doubt it,” blubbered the old man. “He ought to know.”
Without another word, Miss Rosalind flung herself from the cottage and marched straight for the lawyer’s, pale, with bosom heaving and a light in her eyes, that Armstrong, had he been there to see it, would have shivered at.
“Mr Pottinger,” said she, breaking unceremoniously into the lawyer’s private room, “what is this I hear! How dare you frighten old Hodder by talking about his leaving his farm?”
The lawyer stared at this beautiful apparition, not knowing whether to be amused or angry. It was the first time any one in Maxfield had addressed him in this strain, and the sensation was so novel that he felt fairly taken aback.
“Really, dear young lady, I am delighted with any excuse that gives me the pleasure of a visit from—”
“Mr Pottinger,” said the young lady in a tone which made him open his eyes still wider, “will you tell me, yes or no, if what Hodder tells me is true?”
“That depends on what Hodder says,” replied the lawyer, trying to look cheerful.
“He says he has had notice to leave his farm next week. Is that true?”
“That entirely depends on himself, if I must suffer cross-examination from so charming a counsel.”