human
Well, dame, and how are you?
gpt
Blessings on you as broad as your back, Harthover, says she--she didn't call him Sir John, but only Harthover, for that is the fashion in the North country--
human
I am hunting, and strange game too,
gpt
Blessings on your heart, and what makes you look so sad the morn?
human
I'm looking for a lost child, a chimney-sweep, that is run away.
gpt
Oh, Harthover, Harthover, says she,
human
Not I, not I, dame. I'm afraid we hunted him out of the house all on a miserable mistake, and the hound has brought him to the top of Lewthwaite Crag, and--
gpt
So he told me the truth after all, poor little dear! Ah, first thoughts are best, and a body's heart'll guide them right, if they will but hearken to it.
human
Bring the dog here, and lay him on,