"Oh, what is the matter?" she enquired, breathlessly.
"I've been feeling so ill, ma'am," she moaned, "such a turn as I've had. It's this climate as does not suit me. I feel like dying and I was—coming to ask if you had such a thing as a medicine chest?"
"Of course I have," replied Mrs. Gascoigne, profoundly relieved; "it is in my own room. Come with me and I will doctor you," turning back as she spoke. "How do you feel?"
"All cold and shivers like—and a sort of quaking in my inside."
"Oh then, perhaps," opening a cupboard, "this cordial will do you good. At least it will do you no harm." As Angel spoke, she seized a bottle, and a measuring-glass.
By-and-by, as Tile crept stealthily to her own quarters, she encountered her mistress, who had been extinguishing lamps and candles, and setting the drawing-room straight.
"I met her in the doorway," she whispered with a scared face. "I told her I was took ill, and she gave me a cordial—she is as innocent as a lamb."
"My goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Waldershare, her eyes widening in alarm, "that was a narrow escape."