'My name is Margaret Tucker, sir,' she said
meekly. 'My father is Dairyman Tucker. We live at Silverthorn
Dairy-house.'
'What were you doing here at this hour of the morning?'
She told him, even to the fact that she had climbed over the fence.
'And what made you peep round at me?'
'I saw your elbow, sir; and I wondered what you were doing?'
'And what was I doing?'
'Nothing. You had one hand on your forehead and the other on your
knee. I do hope you are not ill, sir, or in deep trouble?' Margery
had sufficient tact to say nothing about the pistol.
'What difference would it make to you if I were ill or in trouble?
You don't know me.'
She returned no answer, feeling that she might have taken a liberty
in expressing sympathy. But, looking furtively up at him, she
discerned to her surprise that he seemed affected by her humane wish,
simply as it had been expressed. She had scarcely conceived that
such a tall dark man could know what gentle feelings were.
'Well, I am much obliged to you for caring how I am,' said he with a
faint smile and an affected lightness of manner which, even to her,
only rendered more apparent the gloom beneath. 'I have not slept
this past night. I suffer from sleeplessness. Probably you do not.'
Margery laughed a little, and he glanced with interest at the comely
picture she presented; her fresh face, brown hair, candid eyes,
unpractised manner, country dress, pink hands, empty wicker-basket,
and the handkerchief over her bonnet.
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