"He can be a very bad little boy indeed," said Widow Thrale, shaking her
head solemnly, "when he's forgotten himself. Who was it broke a pane of
glass Thursday morning before his breakfast, and very nearly had no
sugar?"

Toby said, "Me!" and did not show a contrite heart; seemed too much like
the wicked man that did it again.

Granny Marrable entered into undertakings for Toby's future conduct.
"He's going to be a wonderful good little boy this time," said she, "and
do just exactly whatever he's told, and nothing else." Toby looked very
doubtful, but allowed the matter to drop.

"He's vary hearty to look at now, Aunt Phoebe," said Mrs. Keziah--Granny
Marrable was always Aunt Phoebe to her husband's relations--when this
youth had gone away to conduct himself unexceptionably elsewhere, on his
own recognisances. "What has the little ma'an been ailing with?" Widow
Thrale gave particulars of Toby's disaster, which had let him in for a
long convalescence, the moral of which was that no little boy should
drink lotions intended for external use only, however inquiring his
disposition might be. Toby had nearly destroyed the coatings of his
stomach, and his life had only been preserved by a miracle; which,
however, _had_ happened, so it didn't matter.

Mrs. Solmes was to await the return of the carrier's cart in a couple of
hours, hence it was possible to review and report upon the little local
world, deliberately. Granny Marrable began near home. How was the
visitor's husband?

"He doan't get any yoonger, Aunt Phoebe," said Keziah. "But he has but a
vary little to complain of, at his time of life. If and only he could
just be off fretting! He's never been the same in heart since he went so
nigh to killing Mr. Torrens o' Pensham, him that yoong Lady Gwen is
ta'aking oop with. But a can't say a didn't forewarn him o' what cooms
of a lwoaded gwun. And he _doan't_--so I'll do him fair justice."

"Young Torrens of Pensham, _he_ can't complain," said a sharp, youngish
woman who had come into the room just soon enough to catch the thread of
the conversation. She was the housekeeper at Dr. Nash's, who supplied
what he prescribed, and was always very obliging about sending. She came
with a bottle.

"Why can't he complain, Mrs. Lamprey?" Widow Thrale asked this first, so
the others only thought it.

"Where would he have been, Mrs. Thrale, but for the accident? _Accident_
you may call it! A rare bit o' luck some'll think! Why--wh