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“I say,” he burst out. “How came you to seal her Ladyship’s letter — eh?”

The question bore no sort of relation, direct or indirect, to what Isabel happened to be saying at the moment. In the sudden surprise of hearing it, she started and fixed her eyes in astonishment on Sharon’s face. The old vagabond chuckled to himself. “Did you see that?” he whispered to Moody. “I beg your pardon, miss,” he went on; “I won’t interrupt you again. Lord! how interesting it is! — ain’t it, Mr. Moody? Please to go on, miss.”

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But Isabel, though she spoke with perfect sweetness and temper, declined to go on. “I had better tell you, sir, how I came to seal her Ladyship’s letter,” she said. “If I may venture on giving my opinion, that part of my story seems to be the only part of it which relates to your business with me to-day.”

Without further preface she described the circumstances which had led to her assuming the perilous responsibility of sealing the letter. Old Sharon’s wandering attention began to wander again: he was evidently occupied in setting another trap. For the second time he interrupted Isabel in the middle of a sentence. Suddenly stopping short, he pointed to some sheep, at the further end of the field through which they happened to be passing at the moment.

“There’s a pretty sight,” he said. “There are the innocent sheep a-feeding — all following each other as usual. And there’s the sly dog waiting behind the gate till the sheep wants his services. Reminds me of Old Sharon and the public!” He chuckled over the discovery of the remarkable similarity between the sheep-dog and himself, and the sheep and the public — and then burst upon Isabel with a second question. “I say! didn’t you look at the letter before you sealed it?”

“Certainly not!” Isabel answered.

“Not even at the address?”

“Thinking of something else — eh?”

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“Very likely,” said Isabel.

“Was it your new bonnet, my dear?”

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Isabel laughed. “Women are not always thinking of their new bonnets,” she answered.

Old Sharon, to all appearance, dropped the subject there. He lifted his lean brown forefinger and pointed again — this time to a house at a short distance from them. “That’s a farmhouse, surely?” he said. “I’m thirsty after my roll down the hill. Do you think, Miss, they would give me a drink of milk?”