One of the stories that haunted me for a long time afterwards was
of a girl who was left in charge of a great house in Cumberland on
some particular fair-day, when the other servants all went off to
the gaieties. The family were away in London, and a pedlar came
by, and asked to leave his large and heavy pack in the kitchen,
saying he would call for it again at night; and the girl (a
gamekeeper's daughter), roaming about in search of amusement,
chanced to hit upon a gun hanging up in the hall, and took it down
to look at the chasing; and it went off through the open kitchen
door, hit the pack, and a slow dark thread of blood came oozing
out. (How Miss Pole enjoyed this part of the story, dwelling on
each word as if she loved it!) She rather hurried over the further
account of the girl's bravery, and I have but a confused idea that,
somehow, she baffled the robbers with Italian irons, heated red-
hot, and then restored to blackness by being dipped in grease.
We parted for the night with an awe-stricken wonder as to what we
should hear of in the morning--and, on my part, with a vehement
desire for the night to be over and gone: I was so afraid lest the
robbers should have seen, from some dark lurking-place, that Miss
Pole had carried off her plate, and thus have a double motive for
attacking our house.
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