“And who told you ’e was a good, brave boy? Reggie, I mean.”
“Who told me?” said Mrs Cruden, with surprise. “Who told me he was anything else?”
“Oh, Mrs Cruden! Oh, Mrs Cruden!” said Mrs Shuckleford, beginning to cry.
Mrs Cruden at last began to grow uneasy and alarmed. She sat up on the sofa, and said, in an agitated voice,—
“What do you mean, Mrs Shuckleford? Has anything happened? Is there any bad news about Reginald?”
“Oh, Mrs Cruden, I made sure you knew all about it.”
“What is it?” cried Mrs Cruden, now thoroughly terrified and trembling all over. “Has anything happened to him? Is he—dead?” and she seized her visitor’s hand as she asked the question.
“No, Mrs Cruden, not dead. Maybe it would be better for ’im if he was.”
“Better if he was dead? Oh, please, have pity and tell me what you mean!” cried the poor mother, dropping back on to the sofa with a face as white as a sheet.
“Come, don’t take on,” said Mrs Shuckleford, greatly disconcerted to see the effect of her delicate breaking of the news. “Perhaps it’s not as bad as it seems.”