“I almost think I remember you; your face, and your voice too, seem to me as though I knew them before.”
“So you may, Miss. You saw me here at the mistress’s wake, but don’t let on to the master, for he doesn’t like that any of us should think you was ever here afore. This is the path here, Miss; it’s a rough bit for your tender feet.”
“Have we much farther to go, Molly? I am rather tired to-day.”
“No, Miss; a few minutes more will bring us to the Abbey; but sure we’d send for a chair and carry you——”
“No, no; on no account. It is only to-night I feel fatigued. My uncle’s illness is nothing serious, I hope?”
“‘Tis more grief than sickness, Miss. It’s sorrow is killin’ him. Any one that saw him last year wouldn’t know him now; his hair is white as snow, and his voice is weak as a child’s. Here we are now—here’s the gate. It isn’t much of a garden, nobody minds it; and yonder, where you see the light, that’s his honour’s room, beside the big tower there, and you are to have the two rooms that my mistress lived in.” And, still speaking, she led the way through a low arched passage into a small clean-looking chamber, within which lay another with a neatly-arranged bed, and a few attempts at comfortable furniture. “We did our best, Miss, Sam and myself,” said Molly; “but we hadn’t much time, for we only knew you was coming on Tuesday night.”
“It is all yery nice and clean, Molly. Your name is Molly, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Miss,” said she, curtseying, and deeply gratified.
“I want nothing better!” said Kate, as she sat down on the bed and took off her bonnet.
“If you don’t need me now, Miss, I’ll go and bring you your tea; it’s all ready in the kitchen.”