“Mademoiselle Judith,” said Oldroyd; “a very pretty girl with a very ugly name. Hallo! We are in trouble.”
“I don’t know what’s come to you. Here’s your poor father so bad he can’t lift hand or foot, and you always running off to Mother Wattley’s or picking flowers. Flowers indeed! Better stop and mind your father.”
This in very much strident tones from the cottage whose gate they were entering; and then a sudden softening as Oldroyd and Alleyne darkened the doorway, and the nurse dropped a curtsey.
“Didn’t know you was so close, sir. I was only saying a word to Judith—oh, she’s gone.”
“How is Hayle to-day?” said Oldroyd, as the girl stepped out at the back door.
“Well, sir, thank you kindly, I think he’s better; he talks stronger like, and he took a basin of hare soup to-day, well, that he did, and it was nice and strong.”
“Hare soup, eh?” said Oldroyd, with a queer look at Alleyne.
“Yes, sir, hare soup; he said as how he was sick o’ rabbits, and Caleb Kent kindly brought in a fine hare for him, and—”
She stopped short, looking guiltily at the young doctor, and two red spots came in her yellow sunken cheeks.
“You’re letting the cat—I mean the hare—out of the bag,” said Oldroyd drily. “One of Sir John Day’s hares?”