"Well! Ye're a fine couple up there! What are ye a-doin' of?"
"Never mind what we're doing," said Robin, impatiently. "I say,
Priscilla, do you think Uncle Hugo is really ill?"
Priscilla's face, which was the colour of an ancient nutmeg, and almost as deeply marked with contrasting lines of brown and yellow, showed no emotion.
"He ain't hisself," she said, bluntly.
"No," said Innocent, seriously,—"I'm sure he isn't." Priscilla jerked her sunbonnet a little further back, showing some tags of dusty grey hair.
"He ain't been hisself for this past year," she went on—"Mr. Slowton, bein' only a kind of village physic-bottle, don't know much, an' yer uncle ain't bin satisfied. Now there's another doctor from London staying up 'ere for 'is own poor 'elth, and yer Uncle said he'd like to 'ave 'is opinion,—so Mr. Slowton, bein' obligin' though ignorant, 'as got 'im in to see yer Uncle, and there they both is, in the best parlour, with special wine an' seedies on the table."
"Oh, it'll be all right!" said Robin, cheerfully,—"Uncle Hugo is getting old, of course, and he's a bit fanciful."
Priscilla sniffed the air.
"Mebbe—and mebbe not! What are you two waitin' for now?"
"For the men to come back with Roger. Then we'll haul home."