“Yes, sir. Mitchel, he says he thinks the chimbley must have frozed.”
“Look here, Mrs. Mitchel, I’ve brought Dick home: I found him sitting in the cold on the other side of the stile, and my belief is, he thought he could not get over it. He is about as weak as a young rat.”
“It’s the frost, sir,” she said. “The boys all feel it that has to be out and about. It’ll soon be gone, Dick. This here biting cold don’t never last long.”
Dick was standing against her, bending his face on her old stuff gown. She put her arm about him kindly.
“No, it can’t last long, Mrs. Mitchel. Could he not be kept indoors until it gives a bit—let him have a holiday? No? Wouldn’t it do?”
She opened her eyes wide at this. Such a thing as keeping a ploughboy at home for a holiday, had never entered her imagination.
“Why, Master Ludlow, sir, he’d lose his place!”
“But, suppose he were ill, and had to stay at home?”
“Then the Lord help us, if it came to that! Please, sir, his wages might be stopped. I’ve heard of a master paying in illness, though it’s not many of ’em as would, but I’ve never knowed ’em pay for holidays. The biting cold will go soon, Dick,” she added, looking at him; “don’t be downhearted.”
“I should give him a cup of hot tea, Mrs. Mitchel, and let him go to bed. Good night; I’m off.”