one of the
cottages, and I stepped inside for a moment's breathing-space.

"Lord! Miss 'Olden, is it you?" she said. "I don't know how you dare
stir out. I'm a'most flayed to death to stay in t' 'ouse by myself,
but my master is off wi' most o' t' other men to Gordon's farm to give
'em a hand."

"What is the matter there?" I inquired.

"Ye 'aven't 'eard, then? They say 'at t' wind's uprooted t' big
sycamore an' flung it again' one o' t' barns, or summat, an' it's like
to fall in, so they've gone to see what can be done."

I did my best to encourage her and then made what haste I could to the
house of Roger Treffit, which stood lank and dark against the black
sky. As it was Saturday night I hoped that Roger would be away, but it
was his voice that bade me enter, and the dog rose to give me welcome.

The fire roared up the chimney and the wind met it there with answering
roar. Roger was sitting with his feet stretched out to the blaze, one
arm resting upon the table and encircling a half-empty whiskey bottle.
In his right hand he held a tumbler nearly full of spirits. I saw at a
glance that he was very drunk, but I believed him to be harmless.

"Is Mrs. Treffit upstairs? may I go to her at once?" I asked.

"Quite all right, ma'am, quite all right. Show lady ... way, Miss
T'ry.... Missis ill ... kid ill ... Miss T'ry ill ... ev'yb'dy ill.
Doctor says mus' keep kid quiet, mus'n' disturb 'er. Won't let 'em
disturb 'er, I won't.... Go forw'd, ma'am."

He rose steadily enough, and held the door open for me to pass through,
and I heard him mutter as he returned to his chair:

"Won't let 'em disturb 'er, I won't."

Martha greeted me in her usual sadly-cordial fashion, and motioned me
to a chair near the bed where the little one lay, flushed and asleep.

"She's a bit better," she whispered, "but she's to be kept quiet, an'
whatever I do I haven't to miss 'er med'cine every hour. But he says
wi' care an' good nursin' she'll pull through."

"And how is your cough?" I asked.

"Oh, about as usual," she replied indifferently. "I have to cough into
my apron when Lucy's asleep, but I should soon be right enough if I'd
nought to worrit about. It's yon chap downstairs 'at 'll be t' death
of us both."

"Has he no engagement to-night? I thought he was never free on
Saturdays."

"It's t' dog. She's poorly again, an' he can't work her. My opinion
is 'at t' poor brute's about done, an' I believe Roger knows i