“May I speak to you, Mrs. Wheatfield?”

“My stars, if it bain’t young Miss—­Madam, I mean!  Nothing ain’t wrong with the child?”

“O no, she is quite well, but—­”

“What, ye be late for church?  Come in and sit ye down a bit and sup after your walk.  We have been and killed Spotty’s calf, though ’twas but a staggering Bob, but us couldn’t spare the milk no longer.  So we’ve got the l’in on un for dinner, and you’re kindly welcome if you ain’t too proud.  Only I wish you had brought my little missie.”

“O Mrs. Wheatfield!  Shall I ever see the dear little girl again?  Oh! can you help me?  Do you know where Lea Farm is?  I’d pay anything for a horse and man to take me there, where my sister is staying.”

“Well, I don’t know as my master would hire a horse out of a Sunday, unless ’twere very particler—­illness or suchlike.  Lea Farm did you say ma’am?  Is it the Lea out by Windmill hill—­Master Brown’s; or Lea Farm, down by the river—­Tom Smith’s?”

“No, this is Mr. Meadows’s, a grazier.”

“Never heard tell on him, ma’am, but the master might, when he comes in.  But bless me,” she added, after a moment’s consideration, “what will your master say?  He’ll be asking how it comes that a lady like you, with a coach and horses of her own, should be coming after a horse here.  You ain’t been and got into trouble with my Lady, my dear?”

“Oh!  Dame, indeed I have; pray help me!”

It was no wonder that Mrs. Wheatfield failed to gather more than that young Madam had almost burnt the house, and had fallen under grievous displeasure, so as even to fear the constable.

“Bless your poor heart!  Think of that now!  But I’m afeard we can’t do nothing for you.  My master would be nigh about killing me if I harboured you and got him into trouble, with the gentry.”

“If you could only hide me in some loft or barn till I could meet the coach for Bath!  Then I should be almost at home.”

“I dare not.  The children are routing about everywhere on a Sunday afternoon; and if so be as there’s a warrant out after you” (Aurelia shuddered) “my man would be mad with me.  He ain’t never forgot how his grandfather was hanged up there in that very walnut for changing clothes with a young gentleman in the wars long ago.”

“Then I must go!  Oh, what will become of me?”

“Stay a bit!  It goes to my heart to turn you from the door, and you so white and faint.  And they won’t be out of church yet a while.  You’ve ate nothing all this time!  What was you thinking of doing, my dear?”

“I don’t know.  If I could only find out the right Lea Farm, and get a man and horse to take me there—­but my sister goes on Monday, and I might not find her, and nobody knows where it is.  And nobody will take me in or hide my till the coach goes!  Oh, what will become of me?”