At Carlisle, now in the hands of the Duke, they drew blank, for Brocton
was unaccountably absent from military duty. Fortunately Margaret, from
the window of her room, saw the sergeant ride by. Dot was sent on his
track and learned that Brocton was here, the house being a hunting-lodge
belonging to a crony of his who was an officer in the Cumberland militia.
They had ridden out that morning to see him, at which point her tale
linked up with mine and ended.
"I am greatly indebted to you, Margaret," said I, very lamely, slipping
out her name at unawares.
"Nonsense!" she cried. "May I not do as much as your pet ghostie did for
you without being a miracle? Do not you dare, sir, to offer me a
pinnerfull of guineas!"
She looked at me with a merry twinkle in her eyes, and I feel sure I knew
what she was thinking of. But Nance Lousely was a simple country maiden,
such as I was born and bred amongst, and at that time I had no vile red
stubble, rough as a horse-comb, on my chin.
We were interrupted by the lackey, who came with Mr. Dot Gibson's
respects to his honour, and would his honour like the refreshment of a
shave and a bath as both were at his service? Like master, like man.
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