"Noa!" replied the youth; "but mayhap Bill peep'd thro' the hoal in the shutter, and is a bit dash'd like at seeing a gentleman here. Bill! is't thee, Master Miles?" continued he, bawling. "Lord! the wind whistles so a' can't hear me. Shall I unlatch the door, feyther?"
"Ay, lad, do, an thou wilt," replied the old man; "Rover's wiser nor we be—a dog 'll scent a friend, when a man would'nt know un."
Rover still continued his low importunate whine, and began to scratch against the door. The lad threw it open—the dog brushed past him in an instant, and his quick, short, continuous yelping, expressed his immoderate joy and recognition.
"Hollo! where be'st thee, Bill?" said the young peasant, stepping over the threshold. "Come, none of thee tricks upon travellers, Master Bill; I zee thee beside the rick yon!" and quitting the door for half a minute, he again hastily entered the cot. The rich colour of robust health had fled from his cheeks—his lips quivered—and he looked like one bereft of his senses, or under the influence of some frightful apparition.
The dame rose up—her work fell from trembling hands—
"What's the matter?" said she.
"What's frighted thee, lad?" asked the old man, rising.
"Oh! feyther!—oh! mother!"—exclaimed he, drawing them hastily on one side and whispering something in a low, and almost inaudible voice.
The old woman raised her hands in supplication and tottered to her chair while the Cotter, bursting out into a paroxysm of violent rage, clutched his son's arm, and exclaimed in a loud voice:
"Make fast the door, boy, an thou'lt not have my curse on thee!—I tell 'ee, she shan't come hither!—No—never—never;—there's poison in her breath—a' will spurn her from me!—A pest on her!—What; wilt not do my bidding?"