“Complainin’ an’ down-hearted a bit for her, that is now and again. She cried a good bout to-day wi’ old Winnie, in the little parlour.”
“She’s up, then?”
“Ooh, ay; she’s not a body to lay down while she’s a leg to stan’ on. But I do think she’s nigh her endin’. Gie’t to me,” this referred to the portmanteau. “I do, poor old girl; and we’s all be sorry, Master Willie.”
William’s heart sank.
“Where is she?” he inquired.
“In the drawing-room, I think.”
By this time they were standing in the oak-panelled hall, and some one looked over the banister from the lobby, upon them. It was old Winnie; the light of her candle was shining pleasantly on her ruddy and kindly face.
“Oh! Master Willie. Thank God, you’re come at last. Glad she’ll be to see you.”
Old Winnie ambled down the stairs with the corner of her apron to her eye, and shook him by both hands, and greeted him again very kindly, and even kissed him according to the tradition of a score of years.
“Is she very ill, Dobbs?” whispered he, looking pale.