"My life, Hester, what have 'ee got?" asked Lylie.
"The pains of death, I do think," gasped Hester. "Oh, oh!"
Lylie looked at her unsympathetically.
"Simme you'm whist wi' en," she observed, "scrawlen' like that. Some bad you do look, though, there's no denyen'."
"I'm dyen'!" wailed Hester.
Sophie, who had come into the kitchen, heard the commotion, and went into the scullery.
"Why, Hester, what ails you?" she exclaimed. "Lylie, what has happened?"
"'Tes the pains o' death, she do say," replied Lylie, "but 'tes nawthen but to be in the bed and somethen' hot that she needs."
"She must get to bed at once. Here, Lylie, you take her arm that side and I'll take this. She's getting quieter."
Indeed, the worst spasms were over: Hester, weak and exhausted, was put to bed, and Sophie, her dislike of the girl forgotten in compassion, sent up weak broth and white wine whey. Late that evening as Lylie sat with the Squire, he asked her what all the noise had been about.