“Master Harey, it has came a sirprise. Missis is this mornin’ gev burth to a boy and air; babe is well, but Missis Fairfield low and dangerous.
“Your servant,
“Mildred Tarnley.”
Dulcibella, without consulting Mildred, any more than Mildred did her, wrote also a letter, gentler and more gracious, but certainly no better spelled. When these reached Wyvern, Harry was from home.
It was not till four days had passed that Harry Fairfield arrived in the afternoon.
He had thrown his horse’s bridle to Tom in the stable yard, and appeared suddenly before Mildred Tarnley in the kitchen door.
“Well, how’s the lady in the straw?” inquired Harry, looking uncomfortable, but smiling his best. “How is Miss Alice?”
“Mrs. Fairfield’s very bad, and the doctor han’t much hopes of her. She lies at God’s mercy, sir.”
“She’ll be better, you’ll find. She’ll be all right soon. And when was it—you put no date to your note?”
“On Friday, I think. We’re so put about here I scarce know one day from t’other.”
“She’ll be better. Is any one here with her?”