"Worse."
"He ain't dead!" ejaculated Katy, horror-struck.
"Yes, he is; he fell over a precipice in the Alps, and was instantly killed."
"What's a precipice, sir?"
"He was on a steep hill and he slipped over the edge."
Katy uttered a loud shriek, and sank on the lower stair, and throwing her apron over her face, began to utter what can only be designated as howls of grief.
Mrs. Craven from above was drawn to the head of the landing by what she heard.
"What's the matter?" she asked, in affright.
"Oh! it's Master Frank, mum. He's kilt dead, he is!"