“Yes; I suppose she has ill health—probably the same malady that carried off her mother, and all her sisters and brothers.”
“Very likely.”
“Consumption?” suggested Sybil.
“Scrofula,” sententiously replied Lyon.
“Oh, what a pity!” said Sybil, when their conversation was cut short by the entrance of the landlord, bringing a waiter with the plain supper service and a folded table-cloth, and followed by a young man bearing another waiter piled up with materials for a supper more substantial than delicate.
The little table was quickly set, and the meal arranged and then the landlord, after asking if anything more was wanted, and being told there was not, left the room, followed by his attendant.
Lyon and Sybil made a good supper, and then, as there were no bells in that primitive house of entertainment, he put his head out of the door and called for some one to come and take away the service.
When the waiter had cleared the table, and the travellers were again left alone, Lyon said to Sybil:
“I must leave you here, dear, while I go down to the water-side and inquire what ships are about to sail for Europe. You will not be afraid to stay here by yourself?”
“Oh, no indeed! this is not the Haunted Chapel, thank Heaven!” answered his wife.