“Betsey,” he cried hoarsely, “she’s written to me—she’s sent for me!”
“Oh, Bill, has she?” cried the little woman sadly.
“Yes; she’s written to me—she’s sent for me.”
“Bill dear, I don’t like that.”
“What?”
“It don’t—please don’t be angry with me—but it don’t seem nice.”
“Not nice—not nice!” he cried almost fiercely. “Why, read here. Poor gal! she’s in trouble. There’s something wrong. Here, where’s my best coat. I’ll go down.”
“Oh! that’s different,” cried little Miss Burge, who seemed greatly relieved. “Poor girl! Why, whatever can be the matter?”
“I don’t know. You mustn’t stop me, Betsey,” he cried. “I must go directly—I must.”
“Oh, Bill! Bill! Bill!” sobbed the little lady, throwing her arms round his neck and bursting into tears.