"Hortense," said I.

"No--Ramsay!" cried Hortense, jangling harder than ever.

"But--yes!--Hortense----"

And in bustled M. Picot, hastier than need, methought.

"What, Hillary? Not a-bed yet, child? Ha!--crow's-feet under eyes
to-morrow! Bed, little baggage! Forget not thy prayers! Pish! Pish!
Good-night! Good-night!"

That is the way an older man takes it.

"Now, devil fly away with that prying wench of a Deliverance Dobbins!"
ejaculated M. Picot, stamping about. "Oh, I'll cure her fanciful fits!
Pish! Pish! That frump and her fits! Bad blood, Ramsay; low-bred,
low-bred! 'Tis ever the way of her kind to blab of aches and stuffed
stomachs that were well if left empty. An she come prying into my
chemicals, taking fits when she's caught, I'll mix her a pill o'
Deliverance!" And M. Picot laughed heartily at his own joke.

The next morning I was off to the trade. Though I hardly acknowledged
the reason to myself, any youth can guess why I made excuse to come
back soon. As I rode up, Rebecca stood at our gate. She had no smile.
Had I not been thinking of another, I had noticed the sadness of her
face; but when she moved back a pace, I flung out some foolishness
about a gate being no bar if one had a mind to jump. Then she brought
me sharp to my senses as I sprang to the ground.