"'Wich I'm much hobleeged to you for the name, an' the good advice you give the master, stirrin' hov 'im hup against a lone, friendless widow, wat's slaved an' worked this six years come St. Michaelmas.'
"Mr. Grahame, of course, with the mauvais honte which men too generally display towards angry and unreasonable women, took an awkward leave of the angry widow, and poor Worrell, whom she treated to a lecture of half an hour, ending with a lively fit of tears and hysterics. As the poor little man turned away, leaving her in the hands of a servant, he caught her last broken objurgations.
"'An hungrateful fool, marry an' turn me hoff; ugh, ugh! fix 'im, hany 'ow.'
"The following morning Worrell rose early, and passing through the breakfast-room, received a sulky greeting from his housekeeper, and went out to over-look the labors of his men. Feeling a little unwell, he returned to his room, and finding his dog in his bed, flung him into a spare room, and getting into bed, went to sleep. Now, both dog and master had a very unhealthy habit—that of keeping the head covered with bed-clothes; and so it happened that when Mrs. Sims entered the room, she saw, as she supposed, the black ears and head of the hated Carlo.
"Revenge urged her to undue and overhasty punishment; her overcharged feelings sought relief on some object, and a stout-handled broom was in her grasp. At last vengeance was within her reach; should she relinquish it? No, a thousand times no!
"'You dirty brute!' she yelled, in fury. 'You hold rascal, I'll pay you out! I'll murder you! I'll kill you!'
"Such was the preface of a shower of blows, which suddenly broke the rest of the defenceless Worrell. Half stunned, astounded, almost paralyzed, he heard, as if in a terrible dream, the threats which accompanied the merciless blows of the assailant.
"'I've got you! Sleep again, will you? I'll kill you, you hold fool! I'll murder—Good Lord! hit's my master;' and as a bruised and bloody face, surmounting a meager figure, in remarkably scanty drapery, vanished out of the room, Mrs. Sims drew a long breath, and fainted in real earnest in one corner.
"Worrell never stopped until he reached Grahame's, who rather hastily caught up a shawl, and wrapping him in it, got him to his chamber, and into a suit of his own clothes, only about twice too large, for Grahame was one of the tallest men in the county.
"When he had composed himself sufficiently, a complaint was duly entered against Mrs. Sims for 'assault with intent to kill;' and Mrs. Sims, despite her piteous entreaties, was arrested and brought before the magistrate. Her appeals for mercy were heart-rending.