His sisters were somewhat
shocked at her impertinence and Rusha breathed out "Oh--!"
"I am to wait here for Serjeant Gaythorn," observed the little damsel
somewhat consequentially. "Well! it is a strange little makeshift of
a place, but 'tis the fortune of war, and I have been in worse."
"It is beautiful!" said Rusha, "now we have got a glass window--and a
real door--and beds--" all which recent stages in improvement she
enumerated with a gasp of triumph and admiration between each.
"So you think," said little Mistress Gaythorn. "But I have lived in
a castle."
She was quite ready to tell her history. Her name was Emlyn, and the
early part of the eight years of her life had been spent at Sir Harry
Blythedale's castle, where her father had been butler and her mother
my lady's woman. Sir Harry had gone away to the wars, and in his
absence my lady had held out the castle (perhaps it was only a
fortified house) against General Waller, hoping and hoping in vain
for Lord Goring to come to her relief.
"That was worst of all," said Emlyn, "we had to hide in the cellars
when they fired at us--and broke all the windows, and a shot killed
my poor dear little kitten because she wouldn't stay down with me.
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