On her way upstairs she met Dorcas.

"Have you heard what has happened, little missie?" said the old servant.

"Yes," replied Griselda.

"My ladies are in great trouble," continued Dorcas, who seemed inclined
to be more communicative than usual, "and no wonder. For fifty years
that clock has never gone wrong."

"Can't it be put right?" asked the child.

Dorcas shook her head.

"No good would come of interfering," she said. "What must be, must be.
The luck of the house hangs on that clock. Its maker spent a good part
of his life over it, and his last words were that it would bring good
luck to the house that owned it, but that trouble would follow its
silence. It's my belief," she added solemnly, "that it's a _fairy_
clock, neither more nor less, for good luck it has brought there's no
denying. There are no cows like ours, missie--their milk is a proverb
hereabouts; there are no hens like ours for laying all the year round;
there are no roses like ours. And there's always a friendly feeling in
this house, and always has been. 'Tis not a house for wrangling and
jangling, and sharp words. The 'good people' can't stand that. Nothing
drives them away like ill-temper or anger."

Griselda's conscience gave her a sharp prick. Could it be _her_ doing
that trouble was coming upon the old house? What a punishment for a