‘Whose then - your master’s?’ she asked.

He coloured deeper, with a different feeling, muttered an oath, and turned away.

‘Who is his master?’ continued the tiresome girl, appealing to me. ‘He talked about “our house,” and “our folk.” I thought he had been the owner’s son. And he never said Miss: he should have done, shouldn’t he, if he’s a servant?’

Hareton grew black as a thunder-cloud at this childish speech. I silently shook my questioner, and at last succeeded in equipping her for departure.

‘Now, get my horse,’ she said, addressing her unknown kinsman as she would one of the stable-boys at the Grange.