So we stood upon the door-stone awaiting him. The sounds of suffering had moved my compassion and interested us for the sick girl.
'Blest if here isn't Pegtop,' said Milly.
And the weather-stained red coat, the swarthy forbidding face and sooty locks of old Hawkes loomed in sight, as he stumped, steadying himself with his stick, over the uneven pavement of the yard. He touched his hat gruffly to me, but did not seem half to like our being where we were, for he looked surlily, and scratched his head under his wide-awake.
'Your daughter is very ill, I'm afraid,' said I.
'Ay—she'll be costin' me a handful, like her mother did,' said Pegtop.
'I hope her room is comfortable, poor thing.'
'Ay, that's it; she be comfortable enough, I warrant—more nor I. It be all Meg, and nout o' Dickon.'
'When did her illness commence?' I asked.
'Day the mare wor shod—Saturday. I talked a bit wi' the workus folk, but they won't gi'e nout—dang 'em—an' how be I to do't? It be all'ays hard bread wi' Silas, an' a deal harder now she' ta'en them pains. I won't stan' it much longer. Gammon! If she keeps on that way I'll just cut. See how the workus fellahs 'ill like that!'
'The Doctor gives his services for nothing,' I said.