“No, my dear, there’s never any news down in this lost out-of-the-way place. Dr Rumsey always would persist in leaving London, or he might have been having his guinea fee from every patient, and keeping his carriage by now.”
“Then it isn’t true!” said Madge, with a sigh of relief.
“What, my dear?—Priscilla, if you will persist in sniffing so, I certainly will slap you.”
The young lady addressed immediately began tugging at a pocket-handkerchief, secured by one end to the waistband of some under-garment, and bent her young body like an arc to get a good blow.
“I have been to the shop, and heard that Mr Tregenna was taken ill in the night.”
“Oh, yes, my dear, he was. Papa was called up at two o’clock, and he hasn’t come back yet.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Madge, turning paler.
“That he has, ma,” cried the eldest boy. “I got up at five to see what time it was, and pa was just going out with his fishing-rod; and he told me to go back quietly to bed and not wake anybody.”
“Then you’re a naughty, wicked boy, Bobby, for not saying so sooner,” cried Mrs Rumsey, angrily. “Don’t make that noise, or you shall have no breakfast.”
Bobby was drawing a long breath for a furious howl, but he glanced hungrily at the bread and butter, smoothed his countenance, and put off the performance for the present.