“That is precisely what she says herself,” answered Laura. “Whenever the pain leaves her for a minute or two, she settles down a little in the bed and whispers, ‘Poor Lally’s very bad.’”
“Is she in danger?” asked Bessie.
“I do not know; the doctor will not tell us.”
“Is Arthur at home?”
“No; Heather would not let him know how ill Lally was,” answered Agnes; “but I wrote yesterday—not that I suppose he could do any good, if he were here.”
“She fell into the mill-pond?”—this was interrogative.
“She was pushed in,” answered Cuthbert, with a vicious look towards Harry, who sat at the farthest corner of the table with his legs tucked up under his chair, a great slice of bread and butter and honey in one hand, and a huge cup of tea in the other.
“I didn’t push her in,” remarked that young gentleman.
“No, but you told Leonard to shove her,” said Cuthbert, shaking his hand at his brother menacingly.
“Well, how was I to know she would topple over like that?” persisted Harry. “If she was loose on her perch, that wasn’t my fault, was it? and it’s not right of you to go on like that at me. Mrs. Dudley said you wasn’t to do it; she came and she talked to me, she did, and said she believed me, if nobody else didn’t.”