Your husband would have hanged me, I dare say--but
there, there, peace to his soul."
"Amen," whispers Sophie Pemberthy.
"You saved me; you set me thinking of my young mother, who died
when I was a lad and loved me much too well; and you taught me
there were warm and loving hearts in the world; and when I went
away from here I went away from the old life. I cannot say how that
was; but," shrugging his shoulders, "so it was."
"It was a call," said Sophie, piously.
"A call to arms, for I went to the wars. And what is it now that
brings me back here to thank you--an old, time-worn reprobate,
turned soldier and turned respectable!--what is that?"
"I don't know."
"Another call, depend upon it. A call to Maythorpe, where I expected
to find a fat farmer and his buxom partner and a crowd of laughing
boys and girls; where I hoped I might be of help to some of them,
if help were needed. And," he adds, "I find only you--and you just
the same fair, bright girl I left behind me long ago."
"Oh no."
"It is like a dream; it is very remarkable to me. Yes, it's another
call, Mistress Pemberthy, depend upon it."
And it is not the last call, either. The estate of Richard Isshaw
lies not so many miles from Maythorpe Farm that a good long ride
cannot overcome the distance between them.
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