“I don’t know,” cried Dally thoughtfully.
“She be a bad ’un,” grunted the old man.
“She’s a wretch, and I hate her! Oh, I wish master was the doctor instead of the parson!”
“Why, Dally, my lass?” said the old man, whose lips were drawn open to a terrible extension—a savage grin—as if he gloried in the display of fierce vindictive spite which the girl displayed.
“I’d get something out of the surgery and poison her!”
“Nay, nay, Dally, that wouldn’t do,” he chuckled. “They’d find you out and hang you.”
“I wouldn’t care if I killed her first,” said Dally fiercely. “She shouldn’t have him.”
“What—the doctor?”
“No. Don’t be so stupid. You know—Tom.”
“Ah, well, wait a bit. Dessay the things ’ll come right. Wait till doctor finds it out; he’ll half kill Tom Candlish, same as Parson Salis did when squire was after Miss Leo.”