"Mrs. Wyvern was liftin' up her hands and laughin' all this time,
quietly, in her chair, rolling herself a bit in it, as she used when
she was kinkin'.
"The tears was in my eyes, and she winked at my aunt, and says she,
dryin' her own eyes that was wet wi' the laughin', 'Tut, the child
meant no harm--come here to me, child. It's only a pair o' crutches
for lame ducks, and ask us no questions mind, and we'll tell ye no
lies; and come here and sit down, and drink a mug o' beer before ye go
to your bed.'
"My room, mind ye, was upstairs, next to the old lady's, and Mrs.
Wyvern's bed was near hers in her room, and I was to be ready at call,
if need should be.
"The old lady was in one of her tantrums that night and part of the
day before. She used to take fits o' the sulks. Sometimes she would
not let them dress her, and at other times she would not let them take
her clothes off. She was a great beauty, they said, in her day. But
there was no one about Applewale that remembered her in her prime. And
she was dreadful fond o' dress, and had thick silks, and stiff satins,
and velvets, and laces, and all sorts, enough to set up seven shops at
the least. All her dresses was old-fashioned and queer, but worth a
fortune.
"Well, I went to my bed. I lay for a while awake; for a' things was
new to me; and I think the tea was in my nerves, too, for I wasn't
used to it, except now and then on a holiday, or the like.
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