We had only just commenced our toilet when our hostess entered, as usual in
high spirits, welcomed and kissed us both again and again. She was, indeed,
in extraordinary delight, for she had anticipated some stratagem or evasion
to prevent our visit; and in her usual way she spoke her mind as frankly
about Uncle Silas to poor Milly as she used to do of my dear father to me.
'I did not think he would let you come without a battle; and you know if
he chose to be obstinate it would not have been easy to get you out of the
enchanted ground, for so it seems to be with that awful old wizard in the
midst of it. I mean, Silas, your papa, my dear. Honestly, is not he very
like Michael Scott?'
'I never saw him,' answered poor Milly. 'At least, that I'm aware of,' she
added, perceiving us smile. 'But I do think he's a thought like old Michael
Dobbs, that sells the ferrets, maybe you mean him?'
'Why, you told me, Maud, that you and Milly were reading Walter Scott's
poems. Well, no matter. Michael Scott, my dear, was a dead wizard, with
ever so much silvery hair, lying in his grave for ever so many years, with
just life enough to scowl when they took his book; and you'll find him in
the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," exactly like your papa, my dear.
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