Part 3 (2/2)

”Thou's done well, la.s.s. Thou's ta'en advice o' thy own kind heart, and not o' other folks. Thee take the little maid to thee, and I'll see thee safe out on't. She'll be better off a deal wi' thee, and she can see our Emma every day then. So dry thy eyes, little un; it'll be all right, thou sees.”

”But, Father, you'll not do without me!”

”Don't thee be conceited, la.s.s.” Old Dan was trying hard to swallow a lump in his throat. ”I'll see thee by nows and thens. Thou'll be a deal better off. And there's--there's El'nor.”

”Eleanor's not _always_ in a good temper,” said Bertha doubtfully.

”She's best o' t'other lot,” said old Dan. ”She's none so bad, by nows and thens. I shall do rarely, thou'll see. But, Avice--dost thou think thou could just creep off like at th' lee-side o' th' house, wi' the little maid, afore She sees thee? When thou'rt gone I'll tell her, and then I'll have a run for't till it's o'er. She's better to take when first comings-off is done. She'll smooth down i' th' even, as like as not, and then I'll send El'nor o'er wi' the little maid's bits o' gear.

Or, if she willn't go, I can bring 'em myself, when work's done. Let's get it o'er afore She finds aught out!”

Avice scarcely knew whether to laugh or to be sorry. Poor, weak, easy-tempered Dan! They took his advice, and crept round by the lee-side of the house, under cover of the hedge. When they were out of sight, with a belt of trees between, old Dan took leave of them.

”Thou'll be good to the little maid, Avice,” said he. ”I know thou will, or I'd never ha' let her go. But she'll be better off--ay, a deal better off, she'll be. She gets put upon, she does. And being youngest, thou sees--I say, my la.s.s, thou'd best call her aunt. She's so much elder than thee; it'll sound better nor cousin.”

”Very good, Father,” said Bertha. ”But, O Father! who'll st.i.tch your b.u.t.tons on, and comb your hair when you rest after work, and sing to you? O Father, let me go back!”

”Tut, tut, la.s.s!” said old Dan, clearing his throat energetically. ”If one wife and four daughters cannot keep a man's b.u.t.tons on, there's somewhat wanting somewhere. I shall miss thy singing, I dare say; but I can come down, thou knows, of a holy-day even, to hear thee. And as to combin'--stars knows I shall get enough o' that, and a bit o'er that I can spare for old Christopher next door. He's got no wife, and only one la.s.s, and she's a peaceable un. He's a deal to be thankful for. Now, G.o.d be wi' ye both. Keep a good heart, and step out. I'll let ye get a bit on afore I tell Her. And then I'll run for't!”

Avice and Bertha ”stepped out” accordingly; and as n.o.body came after them, they concluded that things were tolerably smooth. They did not see anybody from the smithy until two days later; and then, rather late in the evening--namely, about six o'clock--Dan himself made his appearance, with one bundle slung on a stick over his shoulder, and another carried like a baby.

”Well!” said he, as he sat down on the settle, and wiped his hot face with his ap.r.o.n. ”Well!”

”O Father, I'm so glad!” said Bertha. ”Are those my things? How good of you to bring them!”

”Ay, they be,” said Dan emphatically. ”Take 'em and make the best thou can of 'em; for thou'll get no more where they came from, I can tell thee.”

”Was Aunt Filomena very much put out?” asked Avice, in a rather penitent tone.

”She wasn't put out o' nothing,” answered Dan, ”except conduct becoming a Christian woman. She was turned into a wild dragon, all o'er claws and teeth, and there was three little dragons behind her, and they was all a-top o' me together. If El'nor hadn't thought better on't, and come and stood by me, there wouldn't have been much o' me to bring these here.”

”Then you did not run, Uncle Dan?” replied Avice.

”She clutched me, la.s.s!” responded Dan, with awful solemnity. ”And t'others, they had me too. Thee try to run with a wild dragon holding on to thy hair, and three more to thy arms and legs--just do! I wonder I'm not tore to bits--I do. Howsome'er, here I be; and I just wish I could stop. Ay, I do so!”

And Dan's ap.r.o.n took another journey round his face.

”Uncle Dan, would you like to take Bertha back?” was Avice's self-sacrificing suggestion.

”Don't name it!” cried Dan, dropping the ap.r.o.n. ”Don't name it! There wouldn't be an inch on her left by morning light! I wonder there's any o' me. Eh, but this world is a queer un. Is she a good la.s.s, Avice?”

”Yes, indeed she is,” said Avice.

”I'm fain to hear it; and I'm fain thou's fallen on thy feet, my little un. And, Avice--if thou knows of any young man as wants to go soldiering, and loves a fray, just thee send him o'er to th' smithy, and he shall ha' the pick o' th' dragons. I hope he'll choose Ankaret.

He'll get my blessing!”

Aunt Filomena seemed to have washed her hands of her youngest daughter.

She never came near them; and Avice thought it the better part of valour to keep away from the smithy. When Emma had a holiday, which was a rare treat, she often spent it with her sister; and on still rarer occasions Eleanor paid a short visit. But the only frequent visitor was old Uncle Dan, and he came whenever he could, and always seemed sorry to go home.

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