“But what’s the matter, child, I say? Can’t you speak, whatever it is, hey? What, have you burnt my best cap in the ironing, hey? Is that it?”
“Oh! worse, worse, ma’am!”
“Worse! What can be worse?”
“My brother, ma’am, my brother George, is ill, very ill of a fever; and they don’t think he’ll live! Here is my father’s letter, ma’am!”
“Lord! how can I read it without spectacles? and why should I read it, when you’ve told me all that’s in it? How the child cries!” continued Mrs. Crumpe, raising herself a little on her pillow, and looking at Patty with a sort of astonished curiosity. “Heigho! But I can’t stay in bed this way till dinnertime. Get me my cap, child, and dry your eyes; for crying won’t do your brother any good.”
Patty dried her eyes. “No, crying will not do him any good,” said she, “but———”
“But where is my cap? I don’t see it on the dressing-table.”
“No, ma’am: Martha will bring it in a minute or two: she is plaiting it.”
“I will not have it plaited by Martha. Go and do it yourself.”
“But, ma’am,” said Patty, who, to her mistress’s surprise, stood still, notwithstanding she heard this order, “I hope you will be so good as to give me leave to go to my poor brother to-day. All the rest of my brothers and sisters are with him, and he wants to see me; and they have sent a horse for me.”