"I can't help it; I promised, you know."
"It was a great pity."
"I think so too. But supposing you had an enemy whom you believed to be dying, and he asked your forgiveness—wretched, cast down, broken, punished heavily of God—would you refuse your tithe of mercy?"
"If I was quite sure that he meant dying I might, but I don't think it's very likely. Like Dolly, I am a good hater. If any man had behaved to me as that woman behaved to you, I should hate him as long as I had a kick left in me. Besides, she is well enough."
"She is not; she may die at any minute, and that was why I forgave her" ("and for Wattie's sake," I add to myself).
"Creaking doors hang longest," says George, sceptically. "There's nothing like a bad complaint to go upon for a long lease of life. She may outlive us all."
"I wonder if you and I will live to be very old," I say, thoughtfully. "How droll it would be if you were a dried-up old bachelor at The Chace, I a dried-up old maid at the Manor House. You would be able to come and see me every evening, and we could play double dummy whist, or draughts, if we were weak in our heads. It would be quite proper for you to come when we are both seventy or thereabouts. We shall wear spectacles, of course, but I do hope that never, never shall we stoop to the degrading practice of taking snuff."
"Don't be premature," says George. "You may love it when you come to that age."
"Don't be nasty! And we shall go to church every Sunday in Bath chairs, as grandpapa and grandmamma did, side by side, only they went so slowly; we will run races. Perhaps we shall live to an enormous age and be put in the Lancet as 'cases.'"
"I hope not," says George, with a vague rustle of hay that sounds
