'Ye must leave your funnin', Miss Milly, and take your turn in your father's room.'
'Is he ill?' I asked.
She answered, addressing not me, but Milly—
'A wrought two hours in a fit arter Master Dudley went. 'Twill be the death o' him, I'm thinkin', poor old fellah. I wor sorry myself when I saw Master Dudley a going off in the moist to-day, poor fellah. There's trouble enough in the family without a' that; but 'twon't be a family long, I'm thinkin'. Nout but trouble, nout but trouble, since late changes came.'
Judging by the sour glance she threw on me as she said this, I concluded that I represented those 'late changes' to which all the sorrows of the house were referred.
I felt unhappy under the ill-will even of this odious old woman, being one of those unhappily constructed mortals who cannot be indifferent when they reasonably ought, and always yearn after kindness, even that of the worthless.
'I must go. I wish you'd come wi' me, Maud, I'm so afraid all alone,' said Milly, imploringly.
'Certainly, Milly,' I answered, not liking it, you may be sure; 'you shan't sit there alone.'
So together we went, old Wyat cautioning us for our lives to make no noise.