Oldroyd burst into a hearty laugh, and caught up his youngest child.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he cried. “Never will I be false to thee. How does the song go? She’s got the complaint that ladies have who have been crossed in love as folks call it. Seriously, dear, I should not be surprised if she did turn a little crazy.”
“Oh, Phil; how horrible!”
“Yes; my dear,” he said seriously, but with a humorous twinkle in his eye; “I understand these things. I knew a young doctor once who very nearly became a candidate for a private asylum.”
“Phil!—Yes; what is it?”
“Messenger, ma’am, from Brackley. Would master be kind enough to step over.”
“Oh, Phil, dear; Glynne is ill,” cried Lucy, piteously. “I had a presentiment last night. Here, I’ll take the children over to mamma, and come with you.”
“Wait a moment,” cried Oldroyd, and he ran out to speak to Sir John’s groom and came back.
“All right,” he said. “No one ill? Something about Hayle the keeper the man says. Wanted directly.”
“Poor fellow’s wound has broken out again,” thought Oldroyd, as he jumped into the dog-cart the groom had waiting, and he questioned the man, who only knew that the keeper had come in to see Sir John that morning, and then he had been sent off to fetch the doctor.