“What?” asked the housekeeper.
“That about the little lad who died.”
“I’d rather not talk of it,” said Mrs. Posset. As she spoke her face began to work—it got crimson, then her eyes filled with tears. She covered her face and sobbed audibly.
“She do take it to heart. I can pump her a bit,” thought the old woman. After a moment she said—
“You’re upset, ma’am, and I’m sorry.”
“I am,” said Mrs. Posset. “I loved him as if he were my own. He was a dear little chap.”
“He must have been, and the young lady what got her husband and the beautiful place, too, by means of the death, seems mighty troubled, too. I s’pose he was a handsome little feller?”
“Handsome!” cried Mrs. Posset. “I never saw his like, never. The most beautiful child you ever set eyes on.”
“Fair, I s’pose? Most of the quality is fair.”
“Not a bit of it. Dark as a raven, black hair, beautiful brown eyes, and such a complexion. And the manner with him and the loving words, and the way he’d fling his arms round my neck and say, ‘I love you, Posset. Posset, have you got a bit of cake for me?’ Oh, he was a darling little chap!”