“I know that, good fellow. Nor would I offer you such an effront. But it will hurt no one to make you an extra keeper at a good salary.” “There, now, Longman! D’ye moind that? Isn’t it jist what I was afther tilling ye!” exclaimed Mike. “Didn’t I say if Ran, or bigging his honor’s pardin, Misther Hay, hadn’t a place riddy made to shute ye, he’d crayate one? D’ye moind?” “Something like that,” replied the hunter, laughing. “But I really do not wish Mr. Hay to make a place for me.” “Friends,” said the young squire, “we will leave that question until we get to Haymore. But in the meantime don’t distress me by calling me Mr.—anybody! I am Ran to all my old companions.” “Ouns! But whatever would the gintry round Haymore be thinking to hear the squire called be his Christian name, with divil a handle to it, be the loikes av us?” demanded Mike, with a laugh. “I do not care what they think! They will soon know that I and my Judy and my friends came from the mining camps in the backwoods and mountains of North America, and that they must not expect more polish from us or more politeness than neighborly, loving kindness inspires. And now, Dandy, old friend, what do you intend to do when we all reach England?” inquired Ran of the old man, who seemed to have been left out, or to have withdrawn himself from the conversation. “Indeed, then, I don’t know, sir! I hevn’t a living soul belonging to me in the old country except it is my brother’s orphan child, my niece, Julia Quin. When I left England she was a good-looking young wench, some seventeen years old, and was at service in a parson’s family down in Hantz. She’ll be married by this time, I reckon, with no end of kids! But, anyways, I’ll look her up, sir, if she is to be found.” “Have you ever heard from her since you left England?” inquired Judy, breaking into the conversation the first time for the last half hour, and interested the moment another woman was brought upon the tapis. “Lor’, no, Miss Judy!—which I beg your pardon. Mistress Hay; but I do be forgetting sometimes. Neither me nor mine was ever any great hand at letter writing. And she was doing well at the vicarage, I knowed. And I was wandering about, seeking of my fortin, which I never yet found, though I might have found it the very next blow of my pick, for aught I know, if I had had the parsaverance to stay, which I couldn’t have after the boys here left, and so for twenty years I haven’t heard a word of my niece. She may be dead, poor wench; for death is no respecter of persons, though she was a fine, strapping, strong wench, too. Yes, that is so.” “I hope not. I hope she is alive and well for your sake. Where did you say you left her at service?” “At the vicarage, ma’am, in my native town, ma’am.” “And what town was that?” “Medge, ma’am. In Hantz, on the south coast, where I was born and riz.” Judy had started at the first mention of Medge. Now she hastily inquired: “What was the name of the vicar?”