“’Tis naught, Eliza, my foot doth trouble me somewhat.”
“Marry,” came the high, strident voice from the other room, “’tis strange that a gouty foot should make you laugh like a moon-struck lunatic.”
Master Myddleton made no reply, and after a moment’s pause the voice went on again:
“’Tis a wonder you can laugh when we have a man coming to take the very bread out of our mouths. You should be praying the Lord to succour your wife and daughter, not laughing yourself daft by the fireside.”
The old man sighed and shook the ashes from his pipe and began slowly to refill it.
“What’s o’clock?” he called out after a minute or so’s silence.
“Half after eight; he should be here by now if the river ain’t high over the bridle path at Tenpenny Heath.”
“Ay,” said Master Myddleton reflectively.
There was the sound of a chair being pushed back and of heavy steps on the stairs, and Mistress Eliza Myddleton entered the dining room where her husband sat.
She was a big fair woman who still preserved a remnant of the great beauty which had once been hers, but as she often told her neighbours when she was in a confidential mood, what with having a rapscallion stepson and a pretty daughter to look after, an excise man for a husband, and also being a staunch, God-fearing woman and a puritan at that, lines and wrinkles would come and they had—as indeed any one might note for himself.