"I'm not silly."
The old crone "nichered" a laugh under her bonnet and bandage: she then drew out a short black pipe, and lighting it, began to smoke. Having indulged awhile in this sedative, she raised her bent body, took the pipe from her lips, and while gazing steadily at the fire, said very deliberately:—
"You are cold; you are sick; and you are silly."
"Prove it," I rejoined.
"I will; in few words. You are cold; because you are alone: no contact strikes the fire from you that is in you. You are sick; because the best of feelings, the highest and the sweetest given to man, keeps far away from you. You are silly; because, suffer as you may, you will not beckon it to approach; nor will you stir one step to meet it where it waits you."
She again put her short, black pipe to her lips and renewed her smoking with vigour.
"You might say all that to almost any one who, you knew, lived as a solitary dependent in a great house."
"I might say it to almost any one; but would it be true of almost any one?"
"In my circumstances."
