"What do you want, Grif?" she asked. "Who have you got there?"
"It's Little Peter," said Grif, placing the boy on the ground; "he's took ill, and I don't know what to do."
Milly raised Peter's head to her lap, and bent over him.
"Poor Little Peter!" she said. "How white he is, and how thin! Perhaps he's hungry."
"No," said Grif. "I know what's the matter with him. He caught cold t'other night, when I took him with me to bury my dawg. It was rainin' hard, and we both got soppin' wet. It didn't matter for me, but he was always a pore little chap. I ought to have knowed better."
"To bury your dog!" repeated Milly. "Why, I saw him with you the night before last."
"Yes, Milly, that was when you gave me that shillin'. Rough was all right then. But he was pizened that night."
"Poisoned!"
"Yes," very mournfully.
"Who poisoned him?"