"Do ee remember that terrible murder away at Ball Farm two years gone? 'Twas a farm servant left in charge, and 'twas gipsies that did it. Two men got inside, dressed like women, and they were purtending to tell fortunes, and the poor little maid screamed for help, and they killed her."
Peggy's eyes grew round. She was accustomed to London horrors, but she thought the country was free of them.
"I ain't afraid of no one with Albert Edward," she said sturdily. "I'd like to have slep' by myself over at my 'ouse to-night. Albert Edward would kill any burglar if he could get at him, I know he would."
Once embarked on a gruesome subject, Mrs. Timson flowed on, bringing out of her past reminiscences so many ghastly stories of murder and thieving and such-like, that at last her more cheerful husband interfered.
"Come, missus, stop it! This young lady won't sleep to-night. She be drinkin' it all in like water!"
"Oh! I ain't afraid," Peggy again repeated. "I arsks God to keep me safe, and I knows He will."
Her sleep was sound and sweet in spite of Mrs. Timson's stories, and she would hardly wait for her breakfast, so impatient was she to get back to Ivy Cottage.
"My missuses will be back at three o'clock, and I has my rooms to sweep and dust, and Albert Edward will be expectin' of me."
She ran back with a light heart, found the postman had left two letters, but no one else had disturbed the premises. She worked away with a light heart, but at twelve o'clock heard at sharp ring at the bell, and when she went to the door was confronted by a tall commanding-looking lady, who asked gruffly if the Miss Churchhills were at home.
Now the last words of Miss Churchhill to Peggy had been these—