“Will they ever come back?” asked the old woman, in a stern, harsh voice, while she paid no attention whatever to Kate's remark.
“It is very unlikely,” said Kate. “Your poor master had not long to live when I came away. He was sinking rapidly.”
“So I heard,” muttered the other, dryly; “the last letter from Mr. Repton said 'he was n't expected.'”
“I fear it will be a great shock to Miss Mary,” said Kate.
The old woman nodded her head slowly several times without speaking.
“And, perhaps, cause great changes here?” continued Kate.
“There's changes enough, and too many already,” muttered Catty. “I remember the place upwards of eighty years. I was born in the little house to the right of the road as you come up from Kelly's mills. There was no mill there then, nor a school-house, no, nor a dispensary either! Musha, but the people was better off, and happier, when they had none of them.”
Kate smiled at the energy with which these words were uttered, surmising, rightfully, that Catty's condemnation of progress had a direct application to herself.
“Now it's all readin' and writin', teachin' honest people to be rogues, and givin' them new contrivances to cheat their masters. When I knew Cro' Martin first,” added she, almost fiercely, “there was n't a Scotch steward on the estate; but there was nobody turned out of his houldin', and there was n't a cabin unroofed to make the people seek shelter under a ditch.”
“The world would then seem growing worse every day,” remarked Kate, quietly.