“ ’Tis something you’ll never be, my pore lad,” replied his mother, not tartly, but with pathetic resignation. She looked penetratingly at Cicely, adding softly: “I wishes you all happiness, Miss Cicely; you be a rare good, kind maid.”
“Thank you, Mary. Can I send you anything? A little strong beef-tea?”
Mary’s eyes brightened, but her thin lips closed.
“Thank’ee kindly, miss. I ain’t much stomach for my vittles. ’Tis the heat, maybe.”
Something in her face made Cicely say hastily:
“If you feel ailing, Mary, send for Mr. Grimshaw. Don’t put it off till it’s too late. He’s very clever.”
Mary nodded doubtfully. Cicely passed slowly on.
She did not hear very encouraging news from Isaac Burble’s niece, who seemed to be more concerned—as well she might—with her own “symptings,” as she called them. Her uncle, so Cicely gathered, had long survived his usefulness. The thought that mainly engrossed the niece was obviously the difficulty and necessity of providing a respectable funeral for one whose time had come.
Cicely insisted on seeing him, and found him fairly comfortable and cheerful. At any rate, Isaac was not contemplating his own funeral. He said with a chuckle:
“I be going to disappint Maggie. Yas, we Burbles be long-lived. Take a squint at Nicodemus. He was here along this marning. I told ’un I’d wager a tankard of ale that this young doctor sets my old leg. ’Twill be a rare joke on Dr. Snitterfield.”