nswered Lady Penelope; "and I asked the brute
Quackleben, who, I am sure, owes me some gratitude, to go and see her;
but the sordid monster answered, 'Who was to pay him?'--He grows every
day more intolerable, now that he seems sure of marrying that fat blowzy
widow. He could not, I am sure, expect that I--out of my pittance--And
besides, my lord, is there not a law that the parish, or the county, or
the something or other, shall pay for physicking the poor?"

"We will find means to secure the Doctor's attendance," said Lord
Etherington; "and I believe my best way will be to walk back to the
Well, and send him to wait on the patient. I am afraid I can be of
little use to a poor woman in a childbed fever."

"Puerperal, my lord, puerperal," said Lady Penelope, in a tone of
correction.

"In a puerperal fever, then," said Lord Etherington; "why, what can I do
to help her?"

"Oh! my lord, you have forgotten that this Anne Heggie, that I told you
of, came here with one child in her arms--and another--in short, about
to become a mother again--and settled herself in this miserable hut I
told you of--and some people think the minister should have sent her to
her own parish; but he is a strange, soft-headed, sleepy sort of man,
not over active in his parochial duties. However, there she settled, and
there was something about her quite beyond the style of a common pauper,
my lord--not at all the disgusting sort of person that you give a
sixpence to while you look another way--but some one that seemed to have
seen better days--one that, as Shakspeare says, could a tale
unfold--though, indeed, I have never thoroughly learned her
history--only, that to-day, as I called to know how she was, and sent my
maid into her hut with some trifle, not worth mentioning, I find there
is something hangs about her mind concerning the Mowbray family here of
St. Ronan's--and my woman says the poor creature is dying, and is raving
either for Mr. Mowbray or for some magistrate to receive a declaration;
and so I have given you the trouble to come with me, that we may get out
of the poor creature, if possible, whatever she has got to say.--I hope
it is not murder--I hope not--though young St. Ronan's has been a
strange, wild, daring, thoughtless creature--_sgherro insigne_, as the
Italian says.--But here is the hut, my lord--pray, walk in."

The mention of the St. Ronan's family, and of a secret relating to them,
banished the thoughts which Lord Eth