Go 'long, Meg!" Dr.Cavendish laughed one of his quiet laughs--a laugh that wrinkled the lines about his eyes, with only a low gurgle in his throat for accompaniment, picked up his whip, lifted his hat in mock courtesy to the old nurse, and calling to Rex, who, bored by Meg's attentions, had at last retreated under the gig, chirruped to his horse, and drove on.
Martha watched the doctor and Rex until they were out of sight, walked on to the top of the low hill, and finding a seat by the roadside--her breath came short these warm spring days--sat down to rest, the dog stretched out in her lap.

The little outcast had come to her the day Lucy left Warehold for school, and the old nurse had always regarded him with a certain superstitious feeling, persuading herself that nothing would happen to her bairn as long as this miserable dog was well cared for.
"Ye heard what Doctor John said about her bein' a woman, Meg ?" she crooned, when she had caught her breath.

"And she with her petticoats up to her knees! That's all he knows about her.

Ye'd know better than that, Meg, wouldn't ye--if ye'd seen her grow up like he's done?
But grown up or not, Meg"-- here she lifted the dog's nose to get a clearer view of his sleepy eyes--"she's my blessed baby and she's comin' home this very day, Meg, darlin'; d'ye hear that, ye little ruffian?
And she's not goin' away ag'in, never, never.

There'll be nobody drivin' round in a gig lookin' after her--nor nobody else as long as I kin help it.