Meg's attentions, had at last retreated under the gig,
chirruped to his horse, and drove on.

Martha watched the doctor and Rex until they
were out of sight, walked on to the top of the low
hill, and finding a seat by the roadside--her breath
came short these warm spring days--sat down to
rest, the dog stretched out in her lap. The little outcast
had come to her the day Lucy left Warehold
for school, and the old nurse had always regarded
him with a certain superstitious feeling, persuading
herself that nothing would happen to her bairn as
long as this miserable dog was well cared for.

"Ye heard what Doctor John said about her bein'
a woman, Meg?" she crooned, when she had caught
her breath. "And she with her petticoats up to her
knees! That's all he knows about her. Ye'd know
better than that, Meg, wouldn't ye--if ye'd seen her
grow up like he's done? But grown up or not, Meg"
--here she lifted the dog's nose to get a clearer view
of his sleepy eyes--"she's my blessed baby and she's
comin' home this very day, Meg, darlin'; d'ye hear
that, ye little ruffian? And she's not goin' away
ag'in, never, never. There'll be nobody drivin'
round in a gig lookin' after her--nor nobody else
as long as I kin help it. Now git up and come
along; I'm that restless I can't sit still," and sliding
the dog from her lap, she again resumed her walk
toward Warehold.