"Who is dead?" she asked, with a little shiver; but old Maria did not answer for a moment, and again that low, muffled toll of the bell struck heavily upon the silence of the room.
Mrs. Fielding repeated her question a little impatiently, adding, wonderingly:
"I did not know that any one was sick in the village."
"I—I—must fotch your gruel, ma'am," cried old Maria; and she waddled precipitately out of the room, leaving Mrs. Fielding very much puzzled over her old servant's deafness.
She lay silent on her pillow, counting those dull, muffled strokes curiously, and thinking to herself:
"They might have been for me. Oh, how glad I am that my trouble is over and I am still alive!"
The bell had ceased to toll when Maria came back, with that ashen look still on her face, carrying the bowl of gruel somewhat unsteadily.
Mrs. Fielding waited until she finished her light repast, then said:
"I counted the strokes, Maria, and there were just nineteen. So it is a young person whom they are going to bury. Now, tell me at once who it is; you need not be afraid of agitating me. Even if it is one of my friends, I will bear it calmly."
"Ay, Lord!" muttered the old nurse, with a grimace hidden behind her hand. Then she gave Mrs. Fielding a strange look. "Ma'am, it's none o' your friends at all, ma'am—only a poor young gal by the name o' Daisy Forrest."