"Ah, do you mean you find many such?"
"A tidy few, me lord, but not s' many as us could wish, d'ye see—"
"Pah! Let us take her there. And be gentle with her."
"Gentle!" growled the bull-necked man. "'Er's dead, ain't 'er—gentle!"
So we moved off in mournful procession until we came to a small waterside tavern, whose inmates my uncle peremptorily awakened, and soon had forth a gruff, sleepy fellow to show the way and unlock a tumble-down outhouse, into which they bore their silent burden, followed by my uncle, bareheaded.
As for me, I walked to and fro in the sunshine, feeling myself cold and shivering. At last I heard the doors close and turning, beheld my uncle's tall, immaculate figure striding towards me.
"A sad sight, Perry, a dismal, woeful sight—and on such a glorious morning. Come, let us go." So saying, he put on his hat, sternly refusing the offer of my outer coat, and taking my arm, we began to retrace our steps. Suddenly he checked, and feeling in his pocket, brought forth that crumpled wisp of paper and, smoothing it out, glanced at it and I saw his eyes grow suddenly fierce.
"Haredale!" said he thoughtfully. "Haredale?" and passed the paper to me whereon I read these words, blotched with water, yet still legible:
You are unreasonable, but this is feminine.
You anger me, but this is natural.
You weary me—and this is fatal.
Adieu,
HAREDALE.
"Haredale!" said I.