The doctor had just gone into the house, and knots of men and women stood about with sorrowful faces; kind neighbours who came one after another to hear the last report as soon as he should again reappear. Mrs Prothero was greatly beloved, and no one could afford to lose her.
'She was so bad last night that she was not expected to see the morning,' whispered one.
'Couldn't take a drop of anything,' said another.
'Is talking of Miss Netta for ever,' said a third.
'There'll be a loss to every one. Mr Jonathan prayed for her in church last Sunday; if prayers'll save her she 'ont die, no seure.'
'She gave me a jug of milk only Friday week.'
'And was coming to see my John in the measles Wednesday before Miss Netta ran away.'
'She's the death of her mother I always say.'
'Poor master is nearly mad.'
'And Mr Owen crying like a baby.'