He followed the direction of her voice, and came to a sort of garret full of every kind of discarded article of domestic use, old crocks that had lost a leg, broken-backed chairs, a dismantled clock, corroded rushlights, bottles that were cracked, a chest of drawers which had lost half the brass handles by which the drawers could be pulled out.
In the obscurity, dishevelled, covered with dust, and warm with her exertions, stood Urith. She put her hand to her face, and pushed her strayed hair from her eyes.
"I want thy help, Tony," she said. "I have been searching, and at length, I have found it. But I cannot carry it forth myself."
"Found what?"
"O—how can you ask? Do you not see what it is?"
It was an old, dusty, cobweb-covered, wooden cradle. "What do you want, Urith, with this wretched bit of rummage?"
"What do I want it for? O—Tony, of course you know. It is true I shall not need it immediately—not for some months, but I shall like to have it forth, and clean it well, and polish its sides, and fit it up with little mattress and pillows, and whatsoever it need, before the time comes when it is required to be put in use."
"I will not have this wretched old cradle," said Anthony. "It is not meet for my son—the heir to Hall and Willsworthy."
"You are reckoning too soon—" laughed Urith. "Perhaps you may have a daughter, not a son."