distance away, while the swart old wood-demon stumped lustily after her,
cursing and brandishing his cudgel.

My blood boiled. I was so shocked that for a moment I could not speak; but
in a moment more I screamed--

'You brute! How dare you strike the poor girl?'

She had only run a few steps, and turned about confronting him and us, her
eyes gleaming fire, her features pale and quivering to suppress a burst of
weeping. Two little rivulets of blood were trickling over her temple.

'I say, fayther, look at that,' she said, with a strange tremulous smile,
lifting her hand, which was smeared with blood.

Perhaps he was ashamed, and the more enraged on that account, for he
growled another curse, and started afresh to reach her, whirling his stick
in the air. Our voices, however, arrested him.

'My uncle shall hear of your brutality. The poor girl!'

'Strike him, Meg, if he does it again; and pitch his leg into the river
to-night, when he's asleep.'

'I'd serve _you_ the same;' and out came an oath. 'You'd have her lick her
fayther, would ye? Look out!'

And he wagged his head with a scowl at Milly, and a flourish of his cudgel.

'Be quiet, Milly,' I whispered, for Milly was preparing for battle; and I