"After the years of grief I've suffered, you might have spared your taunt, George. The gentleman lay almost dead at the door, and you yourself helped me to bring him in."
"'Twould have been better, perhaps, for him if we had led him somewhere else; for your father seems bitter now against all the fine folks together."
"Because he fancies he has cause of hatred to me—but he never had," answered the girl.
"And the gentleman had pistols, too," said the man. "You had better hide them, or your father will maybe use them against the owner."
"I did not move them from the gentleman's breast. We must wake him, and hurry him off before my father's return—but, hark! I hear his whistle. Oh, George, what shall we do?"
Lawleigh, who lost not a syllable of the conversation, imperceptibly moved his hand to his breast, and grasped the pistol. The man and the girl, in the mean time, went to the door, and, in a minute or two, returned with a third party—an old man dressed like a gamekeeper, and carrying a short, stout fowling-piece in his hand. His eyes were wild and cruel, and his haggard features wore the impress of years of dissipation and recklessness. "Does he carry a purse, George?" said the new-comer, in a low whisper, as he looked towards the bed.
"Don't know—never looked," said George. "Where have you been all the week? We expected you home three days ago."
"All over the world, boy—and now you'll see me rest quiet and happy—oh, very! Don't you think I looks as gleesome, Janet, as if I was a gentleman?"
The tone in which he spoke was at variance with the words; and it is likely that his face belied the expression he attributed to it; for his daughter, looking at him for the first time, exclaimed—
"Oh, father! what has happened? I never saw you look so wild."