A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. I must practise what I preach. This obstacle being removed, in his eagerness to proceed, he had forgotten to take his little charge with him. He returned, blue towel in hand. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. The weed was all right.
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