Похищенный

           Themaidappearedsurprised(aswellshemightbe)atourspeedyreturn;butAlanhadnowordstospareforherinexplanation,helpedmetoachair,calledforatassofbrandywithwhichhefedmeinlittlesips,andthenbreakingupthebreadandcheesehelpedmetoeatitlikeanursery-lass;thewholewiththatgrave,concerned,affectionatecountenance,thatmighthaveimposeduponajudge.Itwassmallwonderifthemaidweretakenwiththepicturewepresented,ofapoor,sick,overwroughtladandhismosttendercomrade.Shedrewquitenear,andstoodleaningwithherbackonthenexttable.

           “What’slikewrongwithhim?”saidsheatlast.

           Alanturneduponher,tomygreatwonder,withakindoffury.“Wrong?”crieshe.“He’swalkedmorehundredsofmilesthanhehashairsuponhischin,andsleptoftenerinwetheatherthandrysheets.Wrong,quo’she!Wrongenough,Iwouldthink!Wrong,indeed!”andhekeptgrumblingtohimselfashefedme,likeamanill-pleased.

           “He’syoungforthelikeofthat,”saidthemaid.

           “Oweryoung,”saidAlan,withhisbacktoher.

           “Hewouldbebetterriding,”saysshe.

           “AndwherecouldIgetahorsetohim?”criedAlan,turningonherwiththesameappearanceoffury.“Wouldyehavemesteal?”

           Ithoughtthisroughnesswouldhavesentheroffindudgeon,asindeeditclosedhermouthforthetime.Butmycompanionknewverywellwhathewasdoing;andforassimpleashewasinsomethingsoflife,hadagreatfundofroguishnessinsuchaffairsasthese.