The clear tears formed in the old woman's eyes, and trickled down her cheeks.
"I have been ill all the winter, and very poor; but that was not known, and if known would not have concerned your father. When I got better, I came here to ask if I might be buried, when I die, near my Margaret. Or are you Cleverdons too great and fine now for that? Well—you will let me lie at her feet, though I was her mother, just as I have seen a dog put under the soles of the figures in old churches. You are her son, you are my own grandchild, though you have never known me and cared for me, and given me a thought. Please the Lord, you are not hard as your father, and you will grant me this."
"I did not know I had a grandmother," said Anthony. "If there is anything you want, it shall be done."
"No, I do not suppose that your father ever spoke of me. Your mother's father was the parson here, and died leaving no money. I had to leave, and become a housekeeper to maintain myself, and what little money I then earned has been expended in my illness. Now, will you let me see Bessie? She is good, she remembers her mother, and thinks of her."
Anthony endeavoured to withdraw his hand from the grasp of the old woman, but she would not suffer it; she laid the other caressingly on his, and said,
"No, my boy, you will not be unkind, you will not go from me without a promise to bring me Bessie. I must see her."
"You shall come to Hall, and see her there."
She shook her grey head. "Never! never! I could not bear to be in that house where your mother, my poor Margaret, suffered. Moreover, your father would not endure it! He threatened to take the pitchfork to me—when your mother was alive."
"He would not do that now," said Anthony. "But as you will. I will bring Bessie to you. Where shall I find you?"
"I am staying at Master Youldon's. He knew my dear husband in the old times, and knew me, and does not forget old kindnesses."