While Chris was still revolving this matter in her mind, Mrs. Blanchard returned with some news.
“Postmistress stepped out of the office wi’ this as I corned down the village,” she said. “’T is from Mrs. Watson, I fancy.”
Her daughter brought a light, and the letter was perused. “Uncle ’s took bad,” Mrs. Blanchard presently announced; “an’ sends to say as he wants me to go along an’ help Sarah Watson nurse un.”
“Him ill! I never thought he was made of stuff to be ill.”
“I must go, whether or no. I’ll take the coach to Moreton to-morrow.”
Mrs. Blanchard mentally traversed her wardrobe as she drank tea, and had already packed in anticipation before the meal was ended. Will, on returning, was much perturbed at this bad news, for since his own marriage Uncle Ford had become a hero among men to him.
“What’s amiss she doan’t say—Mrs. Watson—but it’s more ’n a fleabite else he wouldn’t take his bed. But I hopes I’ll have un to rights again in a week or so. ’Mind me to take a bottle of last summer’s Marshmally brew, Chris. Doctors laugh at such physic, but I knaw what I knaw.”
“Wonder if’t would better him to see me?” mused Will.
“No, no; no call for that. You’ll be fit to stand to work by Monday, so mind your business an’ traapse round an’ look for it. Theer ’s plenty doin’ ’pon the land now, an’ I want to hear you’ ve got a job ’fore I come home. Husbands must work for two; an’ Phoebe’ll be on your hands come less than a couple o’ years.”
“One year and five months and seven days ’t is.”