cline her head towards the speaker; a ray of consciousness shot through her bedulled brain.
"Little Paul, eh Sirs! where is Paul? Paul, I say, my ben-cull. Alack! he's gone—left his poor old nurse to die like a cat in a cellar. Oh Dummie! never live to be old, man! They leaves us to oursels, and then takes away all the lush with 'em! I has not a drop o' comfort in the varsal world!"
Dummie, who at this moment had his own reasons for soothing the dame, and was anxious to make the most of the opportunity of a conversation as unwitnessed as the present, replied tenderly; and with a cunning likely to promote his end, reproached Paul bitterly for never having informed the dame of his whereabout and his proceedings. "But come, dame," he wound up, "come, I knows as how he is better nor all that, and that you need not beat your hold brains to think where he lies, or vot he's a doing. Blow me tight, mother Lob,—I ax pardon, Mrs. Margery, I should say,—if I vould not give five bob, ay, and five to the tail o' that, to know vot the poor lad is about; I takes a mortal hinterest in that 'ere chap!"
