Things had not gone well with the sick lambs, both were dead, and one of the cart-horses had gone lame, and the eggs of the pea-hen were addled.
These circumstances were not likely to sweeten Mistress Forrester's temper, and Lucy, who never bore malice, received a sharp answer in reply to her inquiries as to the condition of the lambs.
'They are dead, and much you care, flaunting off with your lover instead of turning your hand to help at home.'
'I could not have saved the lambs' lives,' Lucy said, 'but I am sorry they are dead. I am sorry when any creature dies.'
'I dare say! Be off to bed, for I am locking up in a minute.'
'Where is Mary?' Lucy asked.
'A-bed. That boy has cut his little finger, or some such thing. Lor'! she was like to swoon with terror when she saw the blood; the child himself was not such a coward.'
Lucy hastened upstairs, and found Mary by the window in her favourite seat. A book lay open on her knee, and, when Lucy came in, she held up her hand, and, pointing to the bed, said,—
'Hush! he is asleep.'
'What has happened?' Lucy said. 'Is the boy hurt?'