'
'But why does he think it's about _me_?'
'Hish!' said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was quiet. 'I
can't say--we're in danger, lass. I don't know why--but _he_ does, an' so
do I, an', for that matter, so do _ye_.'
'Meg, I'll leave Bartram.'
'Ye can't.'
'Can't. What do you mean, girl?'
'They won't let ye oot. The gates is all locked. They've dogs--they've
bloodhounds, Brice says. Ye _can't_ git oot, mind; put that oot o' your
head.
'I tell ye what ye'll do. Write a bit o' a note to the lady yonder at
Elverston; an' though Brice be a wild fellah, and 'appen not ower good
sometimes, he likes me, an' I'll make him take it. Fayther will be grindin'
at mill to-morrow. Coom ye here about one o'clock--that's if ye see the
mill-sails a-turnin'--and me and Brice will meet ye here. Bring that old
lass wi' ye. There's an old French un, though, that talks wi' Dudley. Mind
ye, that un knows nout o' the matter. Brice be a kind lad to me, whatsoe'er
he be wi' others, and I think he won't split. Now, lass, I must go. God
help ye; God bless ye; an', for the world's wealth, don't ye let one o'
them see ye've got ought in your head, not even that un.
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