Alice Mount’s malady was what we call a bad feverish cold, and generally we do not expect it to do anything more than make the patient very uncomfortable for a week. But in Queen Mary’s days they knew very much less about colds than we do, and they were much more afraid of them. It was only six years since the last attack of the terrible sweating sickness—the last ever to be, but they did not know that—and people were always frightened of anything like a cold turning to that dreadful epidemic wherein, as King Edward the Sixth writes in his diary, “if one took cold he died within three hours, and if he escaped, it held him but nine hours, or ten at the most.” It was, therefore, a relief to hear Alice say that she felt better, and urge Rose to go to bed.
“Well, it scarce seems worth while going to bed,” said Margaret. “What time is it? Can you see the church clock, Rose?”
“We can when it’s light,” said Rose; “but I think you’ll not see it now.”
Margaret drew back the little curtain, but all was dark, and she let it drop again.
“It’ll be past one, I reckon,” said she.
“Oh, ay; a good way on toward two,” was Rose’s answer.
“Rose, have you heard aught of Bessy Foulkes of late?”
“Nought. I’ve tried to see her, but they keep hot so close at Master Ashby’s there’s no getting to her.”
“And those poor little children of Johnson’s. They’re yet in prison, trow?”
“Oh, ay. I wish they’d have let us have the baby Jane Hiltoft has it. She’ll care it well enough for the body: but for the soul—”