"Come in," answered a female voice, not of the most musical quality, and Chancey accordingly entered. A dirty, sluttish woman was sitting by the window, knitting, and as it seemed, she was the only inmate of the room.
"Is the Reverend Ebenezer at home, my dear?" inquired the barrister.
"He is, and he isn't," rejoined the female, oracularly.
"How's that, my good girl?" inquired Chancey.
"He's in the house, but he's not good for much," answered she.
"Has he been throwing up the little finger, my dear?" said Chancey, "he used to be rayther partial to brandy."
"Brandy—brandy—who says brandy?" exclaimed a voice briskly from behind a sheet which hung upon a string so as to screen off one corner of the chamber.
"Ay, ay, that's the word that'll waken you," said the woman. "Here's a gentleman wants to speak with you."
"The devil there is!" exclaimed the clerical worthy, abruptly, while with a sudden chuck he dislodged the sheet which had veiled his presence, and disclosed, by so doing, the form of a stout, short, bull-necked man, with a mulberry-coloured face and twinkling grey eyes—one of them in deep mourning. He wore a greasy red night-cap and a very tattered and sad-coloured shirt, and was sitting upright in a miserable bed, the covering of which appeared to be a piece of ancient carpet. With one hand he scratched his head, while in the other he held the sheet which he had just pulled down.
"How are you, Parson Shycock?" said Chancey; "how do you find yourself this morning, doctor?"