“Please, Sister Mary, my head does ache so!”
“No excuses, Cicely! Answer at once.”
A long sobbing sigh preceded the words—“Half a pound.”
“Now get to your sewing. Cicely, I must be obeyed; and you are a right perverse child as one might look for with the training you have had. Let me hear no more about headache: it’s nothing but nonsense.”
“But my head does ache dreadfully, Sister.”
“Well, it is your own fault, if it do. Two mortal hours were you crying last night,—the stars know what for!”
“It was because I didn’t hear nothing about Father,” said poor Cissy sorrowfully. “Mistress Wade promised she—”
“Mistress Wade—who is that?”
“Please, she’s the hostess of the King’s Head: and she said she would let me know when—”
“When what?”