giving thanks for the meeting of her dear lady and the charge whom
she and her husband had so faithfully kept.

When the mother and son had leisure to look round, and there was a
pleased survey of the boy's height and strength, Goodwife Dolly came
forward to beg the lady to come to her fire, and rest under the gipsy
tent which she and nephew Piers--her _real_ herd-boy, a rough,
shaggy, almost dumb and imbecile lad--had raised with branches, skins
and canvas, to protect their few articles of property. There was a
smouldering fire, over which Doll had prepared a rabbit which the dog
had caught, and which she had intended for Hal's supper and that of
her husband if he came home in time. While the lady lavished thanks
upon her for all she had done for the boy she was intent on improving
the rude meal, so as to strengthen her mistress after her long walk,
and for the return. The lady, however, could see and think of
nothing but her son, while he returned her tearful gaze with open
eyes, gathering up his old recollections of her.

'Mother!' he said--with a half-wondering tone, as the recollections
of six years old came back to him more fully, and then he nestled
again in her arms as if she were far more real to him than at first--
'Mother!' And then, as she sobbed over him, 'The little one?'

'The babe is well, when last I heard of her, in a convent at York.
Thou rememberest her?'

'Ay--my little sister! Ay,' he said, with a considering
interrogative sound, 'I mind her well, and old Bunce too, that taught
me to ride.'