ly.

At the end of the thanksgiving however, Backhouse raised his head
briskly.

'Not that I iver believed that foolish yoong mon as wrote me that Dick
wor dead,' he said, contemptuously. 'Bit it's as weel to git things
clear.'

Nelly heartily agreed, adding--

'I may be going to London next week, Mr. Backhouse. You say your son
will be in the London Hospital. Shall I go and see him?'

Backhouse looked at her cautiously.

'I doan't know, Mum. His moother will be goin', likely.'

'Oh, I don't want to intrude, Mr. Backhouse. But if she doesn't go?'

'Well, Mum; I will say you've a pleasant coontenance, though yo're not
juist sich a thrivin' body as a'd like to see yer. But theer's mony
people as du more harm nor good by goin' to sit wi' sick foak.'

Nelly meekly admitted it; and then she suggested that she might be the
bearer of anything Mrs. Backhouse would like to send her son--clothes,
for instance? The old man thawed rapidly, and the three, Nelly, Tommy,
and Father Time, were soon sincerely enjoying each other's society, when
a woman in a grey tweed costume, and black sailor hat, arrived at the
top of a little hill in the road outside the garden, from which the farm
and its surroundings could be seen.

At the sight of the group in front of the farm, she came to an abrupt
pause, and hidden from them by a projecting corner of wall she surveyed
the scene--Nelly, with Tommy on her knee, and the old labourer who had
just shouldered his scythe again, and was about to go on his way.

It was Bridget Cookson, who had been to Kendal for the day, and had
walked over from Grasmere, where the char-a-banc, alias the 'Yellow
Peril,' had deposited her. She had passed the Post Office on her way,
and had brought thence a letter which she held in her hand. Her face was
pale and excited. She stood thinking; her eyes on Nelly, her lips moving
as though she were rehearsing some speech or argument.

Then when she had watched old Backkhouse make his farewell, and turn
towards the gate, she hastily opened a black silk bag hanging from her
wrist, and thrust the letter into it.

After which she walked on, meeting the old man in the lane, and run into
by Tommy, who, head foremost, was rushing home to shew his glorious
Haggan to his 'mummy.'

Nelly's face at sight of her sister stiffened insensibly.

'Aren't you very tired, Bridget? Have you walked all the way? Yes, you
_do_ look tired! Have you had tea?'

'Yes, at Windermere.