"I will go away," she said.
And she would have gone, but at that moment there arose a sound of voices in the inner room—Mrs. Briarley's and Janey's, and above theirs Granny Dixon's, brokenly, and yet with what seemed terrible loudness in the hush of the house.
"Bring her i' here!" she was saying. "Bring her i' here an' mak' her—do it!"
And then out came Mrs. Briarley, looking fagged and harassed.
"I ax thy pardon, Miss," she said, "but she says she wants thee. She says she wants thee to be a witness to summat."
"I will not go," she replied. "I—I am going away. I—never saw any one before—in that condition."
But the terrible voice raised itself again, and, despite her terror and anger, held and controlled her.
"I see her!" it cried. "Mak' her coom in. I knowed her gran'feyther—when I wur a lass—seventy year ago!"
"She will na harm thee," said Mrs. Briarley. And partly because of a dread fascination, and partly because the two women regarded her with such amazement, she found herself forced to give way and enter.
It was a small room, and dark and low. The bed was a huge four-poster which had belonged to Granny Dixon herself in her young days. The large-flowered patterns of its chintz hangings were faded with many washings.
Of the woman lying upon it there was little left but skin and bone. She seemed all eyes and voice—eyes which stared and shone in the gloom, and voice which broke upon the silence with an awesome power.
"She's been speaking awmost i' a whisper till to-day," explained Mrs. Briarley, under her breath, "an' aw at
