"What news?" said I, turning.
"S'prisin' noos it be--ah! an' 'stonishin' tu. But first of all,
Peter, I wants to ax 'ee a question."
"What is it, Ancient?"
"Why, it be this, Peter," said the old man, hobbling nearer, and
peering up into my face, "ever since the time as I went an' found
ye, I've thought as theer was summ'at strange about 'ee, what wi'
your soft voice an' gentle ways; an' it came on me all at once
--about three o' the clock's arternoon, as you might be a dook
--in disguise, Peter. Come now, be ye a dook or bean't ye--yes
or ne, Peter?" and he fixed me with his eye.
"No, Ancient," I answered, smiling; "I'm no duke."
"Ah well!--a earl, then?"
"Nor an earl."
"A barrynet, p'r'aps?"
"Not even a baronet."
"Ah!" said the old man, eyeing me doubtfully, "I've often thought
as you might be one or t' other of 'em 'specially since 'bout
three o' the clock 's arternoon."
"Why so?"
"Why, that's the p'int--that's the very noos as I've got to tell
'ee," chuckled the Ancient, as he seated himself in the corner.
"You must know, then," he began, with an impressive rap on the
lid of his snuffbox, "'bout three o'clock 's arternoon I were
sittin' on the stile by Simon's five-acre field when along the
road comes a lady, 'an'some an' proud-looking, an' as fine as
fine could be, a-ridin' of a 'orse, an' wi' a servant ridin'
another 'orse be'ind 'er. As she comes up she gives me a look
out o' 'er eyes, soft they was, an' dark, an' up I gets to touch
my 'at. All at once she smiles at me, an' 'er smile were as
sweet an' gentle as 'er eyes; an' she pulls up 'er 'orse. 'W'y,
you must be the Ancient!' says she. 'W'y, so Peter calls me, my
leddy,' says I. 'An' 'ow is Peter?' she says, quick-like; ''ow
is Peter?' says she. 'Fine an' 'earty,' says I; 'eats well an'
sleeps sound,' says I; ''is arms is strong an' 'is legs is strong,
an' 'e aren't afeared o' nobody--like a young lion be Peter,'
says I. Now, while I'm a-sayin' this, she looks at me, soft an'
thoughtful-like, an' takes out a little book an' begins to write
in it, a-wrinklin' 'er pretty black brows over it an' a-shakin'
'er 'ead to 'erself. An' presently she tears out what she's
been a-writin' an' gives it to me. 'Will you give this to Peter
for me?' says she. 'That I will, my leddy!' says I. 'Thank
'ee!' says she, smilin' again, an' 'oldin' out 'er w'ite 'an' to
me, which I kisses. 'Indeed!' says she,' I understand now why
Peter is so fond of you. I think I could be very fond of 'ee
tu!' says she. An' so she turns 'er 'orse, an' the servant 'e
turns 'is an' off they go; an' 'ere, Peter--'ere be the letter."
Saying which, the Ancient took a slip of paper from the cavernous
interior of his hat and tendered it to me.