he truth, yet
not by any means the whole truth, for the leading figure was left out),
and a snort from his broad nostrils showed contempt and strong vexation.

"Just what I said would come o' such a job," he muttered, without
thought of Lancelot; "to let in a traitor, and spake him fair, and make
much of him. I wish you had knocked his two eyes out, Master Lance,
instead of only blacking of 'un. And a fortnight lost through that
pisonin' Spraggs! And the weather going on, snow and thaw, snow and
thaw. There's scarcely a dog can stand, let alone a horse, and the
wreaths getting deeper. Most onlucky! It hath come to pass most
ontoimely."

"But who is Sir Duncan? And who is Mr. Bert? I have told you everything,
Jordas; and all you do is to tell me nothing."

"What more can I tell you, sir? You seem to know most about 'em. And
what was it as took you down that way, sir, if I may make so bold to
ask?"

"Jordas, that is no concern of yours; every gentleman has his own
private affairs, which can not in any way concern a common man. But
I wish you particularly to find out all that can be known about Mr.
Bert--what made him come here, and why does he live so, and how much has
he got a year? He seems to be quite a gentleman--"

"Then his private affairs, sir, can not concern a common man. You had
better ways go yourself and ask him; or ask his friend with the two
black eyes. Now just you do as I bid you, Master Lance. Not a word of
all this here to my ladies; but think of something as you must have
immediate from Middleton. Something as your health requires"--here
Jordas indulged in a sarcastic grin--"something as must come, if the sky
come down, or the day of Judgment was to-morrow."

"I know, yes, I am quite up to you, Jordas. Let me see: last time it was
a sweet-bread. That would never do again. It shall be a hundred oysters;
and Spraggs shall command it, or be turned out."

"Jordas, I really can not bear," said the kind Mrs. Carnaby, an hour
afterward, "that you should seem almost to risk your life by riding to
Middleton in such dreadful weather. Are you sure that it will not snow
again, and quite sure that you can get through all the wreaths? If not,
I would on no account have you go. Perhaps, after all, it is but the
fancy of a poor fantastic invalid, though Dr. Spraggs feels that it is
so important, and may be the turning-point in his sad illness. It seems
such a long way in such weather; and selfish people, who ca