"She fails fast," said the daughter, when accosted by Valentine; and she took him up-stairs to see her mother. He first made himself welcome by giving her a handsome alms, and then inquired about her health.
The daughter had gone down of her own accord. "I'n bin very bad with my sparms" meaning spasms, she answered in a plaintive voice. Valentine saw a very great change in her, the last sunset's afterglow fell upon her face, it was sunk and hollow, yet she spoke in clear tones, full of complaint, but not feeble. "And I'n almost done wi' this world."
"Mr. Craik comes to see you, I know; he told me to-day that you were ill."
"Parson were always hard on I."
"Because he doesn't believe the ghost story."
"Ay, told me so this blessed marnin'; and who be he? wanted I to own 'twas a lie, and take the blessed sacrament, and make a good end. 'Sir,' says I, 'Mr. Martimer believed it, that's Mr. Melcombe now—and so 'e did, sir.'"
"No, I didn't," said Valentine.
"No?" she exclaimed, in a high piping tone.
"No, I say. I thought you had either invented it—made it up, I mean—or else dreamed it. I do not wish to be hard on you, but I want to remind you how you said you had almost done with this world."
"Why did 'e goo away, and never tell I what 'e thought?" she interrupted.