Cottingham had joined the party, and was leaning on the half-door of
the kennel, watching his hounds with the never-failing interest of a
good kennel-huntsman.

"I couldn't be too 'ard on Miss Christeen, sir," replied Cottingham;
"her's the best walk I have. That there Nancy was a sickly little
thing enough when I sent 'er to Miss Christeen, and look at 'er now! A
slapping fine bitch!"

Christian turned a slow and expressionless eye upon her accuser,
indicating triumph.

"It's like this with that Nancy," continued Cottingham, with whom the
preaching habit, fostered by years of laying down the law on
subservient fields, was inveterate. "Her got that fond of Miss
Christeen, her follered 'er about, the way the ole lamb followed Mary,
as they say. And that artful she got! Wouldn't try a yard! An' she 'ad
the 'ole o' the young entry like 'erself. Any sort of a check, and
back they all comes an' looks at me, wi' their 'eads a one side, and
their sterns agoin' like this," he wagged a stubby fore-finger to and
fro in so precisely the right rhythm, that, stubby as it was, no magic
wand could evolve more instantly the scene to be presented; "an'
that's 'ow it'd be, th' old 'ounds workin' 'ard, and the young uns
lookin' like they 'as nothin' to do only admire of me!"

"Quite right, too!" truckled Christian.

"Ah, Miss Christeen, I'm too used to soft soap, I am!"