“Poor maid!” saith he. “A life flung away! And it might have been so different!”
I said nought, for the tears burned under mine eyelids, and there was a lump in my throat that let me from speech.
“I would thou wouldst say, Milly,” goeth on Dr Bell, “to my Lady and Mistress Joyce, that daft Madge (as methinks) shall not pass the day, and she hath a rare fantasy to see Mistress Joyce once more. See if it may be compassed. Good morrow.”
I went in forthwith and sought Aunt Joyce, which spake no word, but went that instant moment and tied on her hood and cloak: and so did I mine.
’Twas nigh ten o’ the clock when we reached old Madge’s hut.
We found daft Madge in her bed, and seemingly asleep. But old Madge said ’twas rather a kind of heaviness, whence she would rouse if any spake to her.
Aunt Joyce leaned over her and kissed her brow.
“Eh, ’tis Mistress Joyce!” saith Madge, feebly, as she oped her eyes. “That’s good. He’s let me have all I wanted.”
“Art comfortable, Madge?”
“Close to th’ gate. I’m lookin’ to see ’t open and Mother come out. Willn’t she be pleased?”