another; and that poor lad’ll be lost atween ye. Poor lad!” he added, with a groan; * “he’s witched: I’m sartin on’t. Oh, Lord, judge ’em, for there’s norther law nor justice among
“No! or we should be sitting in flaming fagots, I suppose,” retorted the singer. “But wisht, old man, and read your Bible like a Christian, and never mind me. This is ‘Fairy Annie’s Wedding’—a bonny tune—it goes to a dance.”
Mrs. Dean was about to recommence, when I advanced; and recognising me directly, she jumped to her feet, crying—“Why, bless you, Mr. Lockwood! How could you think of returning in this way? All’s shut up at Thrushcross Grange. You should have given us notice!”
“I’ve arranged to be accommodated there, for as long as I shall stay,” I answered. “I depart again tomorrow. And how are you transplanted here, Mrs. Dean? tell me that.”