While this entertaining conversation was going
on, there came a horrid screech and a long succession of yelps from the
court-yard.
'Good gracious mercy,' cried Aunt Rebecca, sailing rapidly to the
window, ''tis Flora's voice. Sweet creature, have they killed you--my
angel; what is it?--where _are_ you, sweetheart?--where _can_ she be?
Oh, dear--oh, dear!'--and she looked this way and that in her
distraction.
But the squeak subsided, and Flora was not to be seen; and Aunt Becky's
presence of mind returned, and she said--
'Captain Cluffe, 'tis a great liberty; but you're humane--and, besides,
I know that _you_ would readily do me a kindness.' That emphasis was
shot at poor Puddock. 'And may I pray you to try on the steps if you can
see the dear animal, anywhere--you know Flora?'
'Know her?--oh dear, yes,' cried Cluffe with alacrity, who, however, did
_not_, but relied on her answering to her name, which he bawled lustily
from the door-steps and about the court-yard, with many terms of
endearment, intended for Aunt Becky's ear, in the drawing-room.
Little Puddock, who was hurt at that lady's continued severity, was
desirous of speaking; for he liked Aunt Becky, and his heart swelled
within him at her injustice; but though he hemmed once or twice, somehow
the exordium was not ready, and his feelings could not find a tongue.
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