"Ah," said the Doctor, "that north wing has managed to get up a weird name for itself, and the minute any of you get into it, your common sense leaves you. I am not speaking of you, ma'am," he added to Mrs. Carlyon, "but of the house in general;" and, dropping the subject, he proceeded to question her about her ailments.
"One of the wenches got up there; 'twas nothing else," thought the Doctor, as he left the ladies and went away. "Were I Miss Winter, I'd have that wing turned inside out."
Walking round to the stable-yard, his way led him past the kitchen windows. It was growing dusk then, but the fire lighted up the room. He saw Dorothy Stone bending over the fire, stirring something in a saucepan. Dr. Spreckley walked straight into the kitchen.
"Oh, sir, how you frightened me!" cried Dorothy, turning round with a start.
"You are easily frightened," retorted the Doctor. "Are you mulling wine there?"
"Law, sir! Wine! I be making Eliza a drop o' thin arrowroot; she thought she could sup a spoonful or two. She has had nothing all day, poor thing! and you said she was to be kept up."
"Keep her up by all means. Put a little brandy in the arrowroot. Look here, Mrs. Stone: you remember the evening of the Squire's funeral?"
The question startled Mrs. Stone more than his entrance had done. She clapped the saucepan upon the top of the oven, stepped backwards, and looked at Dr. Spreckley.
"Whatever do you ask me that for, sir?"
"Do you remember it?--the evening of the day the Squire was buried?"