“I have asked Dan to breakfast, mother,” said the girl, with a laugh; “see the game he has brought us home.”
“Dan to breakfast, indeed! There be but two rashers in the pan and two eggs in the pot. We can’t feed Dan at such short notice.”
The man frowned at her, kicked his dog that was for sparring with old Ursula’s cat, tossed the hare and birds onto a settle by the door, and jerked his gun up over his shoulder. He and Dame Ursula were not the best of friends, and Black Dan, who feared no mortal thing in breeches, stood half in awe of the old beldam. He clawed his fur cap from off his head, stared hard at Bess, and stood fidgeting on the step.
“I reckon I’d better go home, lass,” he said, sulkily.
Bess set her milk-pail down on the stone floor and untied her hood.
“You take some cooking for, Dan,” she said, mischievously.
“I don’t want to lick shoe-leather for a welcome.”
“Never worry. We will be ready for you another day.”
Bess, having caught a significant twinkle in Dame Ursula’s eyes, gave Dan Grimshaw a courtesy, and picked up her pail. The man pulled his fur cap down over his eyes, and, with a last glance at the girl, plodded away over the snow, whistling, his breath steaming on the frosty air. Bess watched him go, and then closed and locked the door. Old Ursula was bending over the fire, turning the bacon in the pan.
She looked at Bess curiously, and scolded the black cat that had put its fore-paws on the milk-pail and was trying to lap the milk.