“What shall you say to her this morning?”
“Wait and see—Well, is he coming down?”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the footman. “I’ve been knocking ever so long at Mr Claud’s door, and I can’t get any answer.”
Mrs Wilton’s hand dropped from the tap of the tea urn, and the boiling water began to flow over the top of the pot.
“Humph! Sulky,” muttered Wilton—“Eh? What are you staring at?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but he didn’t put his boots outside last night, and he never took his hot water in.”
“Oh, James, James!” cried Mrs Wilton, wildly, “I knew it, I knew it. I dreamed about the black cow all last night, and there’s something wrong.”
“Stop a minute: I’ll come,” said Wilton, quickly, and a startled look came into his face.
“Take me—take me, too,” sobbed his wife. “Oh, my poor boy! If anything has happened to him in the night. I shall never forgive myself. Samuel—Samuel!”
“Yes, ma’am.”