“Here we are, and I declare, Julia, I 'd rather go back than go forward.”
“You sha' n't have the choice,” said she, laughing, as she rang the bell. “How is your master, William?” asked she, as the servant admitted them.
“No better, miss; the Dublin doctor's upstairs now in consultation, and I believe there's another to be sent for.”
“Mind that you don't say I 'm here. I 'm going to Mrs. Eady's room to dry my cloak, and I don't wish the young ladies to be disturbed,” said she, passing hastily on to the housekeeper's room, while L'Estrange made his way to the drawing-room. The only person here, however, was Mr. Harding, who, with his hands behind his back and his head bowed forward, was slowly pacing the room in melancholy fashion.
“Brain fever, sir,” muttered he, in reply to the curate's inquiry. “Brain fever, and of a severe kind. Too much application to business—did not give up in time, they say.”
“But he looked so well; seemed always so hearty and so cheerful.”
“Very true, sir, very true; but as you told us on Sunday, in that impressive discourse of yours, we are only whited sepulchres.”
L'Estrange blushed. It was so rare an event for him to be complimented on his talents as a preacher that he half mistrusted the eulogy.
“And what else, indeed, are we?” sighed the little man.
“Here's our dear friend, with all that the world calls prosperity; he has fortune, station, and fine family, and—”