“Lawks, ay! It would a got me through the cold beautiful.”
“And I hope you will let this get you through next year’s cold,” returned Maria, putting the note into her purse.
“Ay, sure! But now, ain’t it kind o’ Peggy?”
“Yes. It is delightful to hear that she is so well settled at last.”
“I’ve been drinking her health, and better luck still,” said Mrs. Bond, taking the cork out of the bottle, and pouring out half its remaining contents. “’Ould ye just take a drain, ma’am?”
“No, thank you,” replied Maria. “I don’t like the smell of it.”
“No!” returned Mrs. Bond, who, truth to say, but for the “drains” she had taken herself, and which had tended slightly to muddle her perceptions, would never have thought of proffering the invitation. “Not like the smell! It were tenpence the half-pint.”
Maria took the child’s hand. Meta gave it reluctantly: the new parrot possessed great attractions for her. “I’ll come again and see it to-morrow,” said she to Mrs. Bond. “I’ll come with Margery. I am coming to play in the hayfield.”
“Ay,” returned Mrs. Bond. “Ain’t it pretty! It’s the best Old Tom.”
She was evidently getting a little confused in her intellects. Had Maria been a strong-minded district visitor, given to reforming the evils of the parish, she might have read Mrs. Bond a lecture on sobriety, and walked off with the bottle. Mrs. Bond and such medicine-bottles had however been too long and too well acquainted with each other, to admit any hope of their effectually parting now: and the last thing Maria caught, as she glanced back, was a vision of that lady’s head thrown back, the inverted tea-cup to her lips.