What she wrote Miss Ffrench scarcely knew. In the end there was her own name signed below, and a black, scrawling mark from Granny Dixon's hand. The woman who had come in made her mark also.
"Mak' a black un," said the testatrix. "Let's ha' it plain."
Then, turning to Rachel:
"Does ta want to know wheer th' money come fro'? Fro' Will Ffrench—fro' him. He wur one o' th' gentry when aw wur said an' done—an' I wur a han'some lass."
When it was done they all stood and looked at each other. Granny Dixon lay back upon her pillows, drawing sharp breaths. She was looking only at Rachel Ffrench. She seemed to have forgotten all the rest of them, and what she had been doing. All that was left of the Voice was a loud, halting whisper.
"Wheer's th' flower?" she said. "I conna smell it."
It was in her hand.
Rachel Ffrench drew back.
"Let me go," she said to Mrs. Briarley. "I cannot stay here."