“You’re better than a doctor, Becky,” said the old woman, “a thousand times better. I was as young and merry as you once—I was indeed. Pretty—too—eh, Becky?”
“That’s to be seen,” said Becky, rubbing away. “You have the remains now.”
“Have I, Becky, have I—eh?”
“Indeed you have—you’re a good-looking old lady.”
A gleam of vanity and delight lit up the old creature’s eyes for a moment.
“Am I, Becky—eh? You’re a good girl—listen; I shall leave you something in my will. I’m going to make one—by and bye, but I don’t want any lawyers. You shall do it for me. I can trust you, eh, Becky?”
“Indeed you can,” replied Becky, tucking the old woman in; “you feel more comfortable now, don’t you?”
“Yes, your soft hands rub the pain away. But it comes again, Becky, it comes again.”
“So will I, to rub it away again. I must go down now, I have so much to do.” She patted the old woman’s shoulder, and reached the door, when she stopped and asked, in a careless tone,
“Have you heard any more mice to-night scratching at the wall in the next house, Mrs. Bailey.”