"No, sir, please—my brother's children."
"Your brother's—ho! He doesn't live here, I hope?"
"He's dead, sir."
"Dead—is he?"
"Five years last May, sir."
"Oh! that's good. And their mother?—some more sherry, please."
"Dead about four years, poor thing! They're orphans, sir, please."
"'Gad! I do please; it's a capital arrangement, ma'am, as they are here, and you mustn't let 'em go among the children that swarm about places like this. Egad! ma'am, I've no fancy for scarlatina or small-pox, or any sort or description of your nursery maladies."
"They're very 'ealthy, sir, I thank you," said grave Sarah Rumble, a little mistaking Mr. Dingwell's drift.
"Very glad to hear it, ma'am."