“Davy Roth,” she averred, with a wag of the head so earnest that strands of flaxen hair fell over her eyes, and she had to brush them back again, “I never felt so queer in all my life afore!”
“I’m dreadful worried about you, Bessie.”
“Hut! as for that,” said she, brightly, “I’m not thinkin’ I’m goin’ t’ die, Davy.”
“Sure, you never can tell about sickness,” I sagely observed.
“Oh, no!” said she. “I isn’t got that—kind o’—sickness.”
“Well,” I insisted, triumphantly, “you’re wonderful shy o’ eatin’ pork.”
She shuddered.
“I wished I knowed what you had,” I exclaimed impatiently.
“I wished you did,” she agreed, frankly, if somewhat faintly. “For, then, Davy, you’d give me a potion t’ cure me.”
She drew back the curtain—for the hundredth time, I vow—and peered towards South Tickle.