"Thank you, sir," she answered in a very small voice, and I more
than suspected that she was laughing at me.
"Not," I therefore continued, "that there was any real danger."
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"I mean that, in all probability, the man you saw was Black
George, a very good friend of mine, who, though he may imagine he
has a grudge against me, is too much of a man to lie in wait to
do me hurt."
"Then why should he hide in the hedge?"
"Because he committed the mistake of throwing the town Beadle
over the churchyard wall, and is, consequently, in hiding, for
the present."
"He has an ill-sounding name."
"And is the manliest, gentlest, truest, and worthiest fellow that
ever wore the leather apron."
Seeing how perseveringly she kept the whole breadth of the path
between us, I presently fell back and walked behind her; now her
head was bent, and thus I could not but remark the little curls
and tendrils of hair upon her neck, whose sole object seemed to
be to make the white skin more white by contrast.
"Peter," said she suddenly, speaking over her shoulder, "of what
are you thinking?"
"Of a certain steak pasty that was promised for my supper," I
answered immediately, mendacious.
"Oh!"
"And what," I inquired, "what were you thinking?"
"I was thinking, Peter, that the--shadow in the hedge may not
have been Black George, after all."