"The boy is waiting," she said, breathless with the speed she had used. "Here is a telegram, and oh, my dear, there's nine whole shillings to pay. It's no mistake—it's marked on it. I hope it may be worth all that good money."
Mrs. Dorriman clutched the telegram in her hand, and went swiftly up the path and to her own room.
Before she got in the rain had come to them, and it came down with a violence which the wind seemed to increase as it dashed it against the windows. As her foot was on the stair Mrs. Dorriman's kindly nature made her say,
"Be good to the boy, Jean; he cannot face the storm for a bit."
Jean, who was one of those dear old women whose delight is in ministering to some one's wants, and who was never happier than when having the opportunity of doing so, went into the kitchen happy, and was soon busy heating "a fine sup of broth for him," and other things as well—when she heard a cry.
Setting the broth before him, and carefully shutting all the doors, that he, an outsider, should hear nothing, Jean hurried upstairs. Mrs. Dorriman was sitting on the sofa, and looking white and miserable. The open telegram lay on the ground. She had flung it away as we fling away something that hurts us, and when Jean came in she laid hold of her arm, and pointed to it.
Jean lifted it up, and read as follows:—
"I have sold the place, and you are to be here at six o'clock next Saturday—without fail. The new proprietor will be there that day. No maid or other servant can come here."
Jean read and re-read—she did not take it all in at first. Then an indignation and a whole storm of righteous wrath rose within her.
She put her arms round poor Mrs. Dorriman, and they mingled their tears together.