landlord, slowly. "Was he in the Loamshire Militia? A tall young officer, with a fairish skin and reddish whiskers—and had a servant by the name o' Pym?"
"O yes," said Hetty; "you know him—where is he?"
"A fine sight o' miles away from here: the Loamshire Militia's gone to Ireland; it's been gone this fortnight."
"Look there! she's fainting," said the landlady, hastening to support Hetty, who had lost her miserable consciousness and looked like a beautiful corpse. They carried her to the sofa and loosened her dress.
"Here's a bad business, I suspect," said the landlord, as he brought in some water.
"Ah, it's plain enough what sort of business it is," said the wife. "She's not a common flaunting dratchell, I can see that. She looks like a respectable country girl, and she comes from a good way off, to judge by her tongue. She talks something like that ostler we had that come from the north: he was as honest a fellow as we ever had about the house—they're all honest folks in the north."
