'That's strange,' said Milly gaily; 'I thought everybody liked
summer.'

'Not those that live as I do, Miss Darrell. There's no illness in
summer--no colds, nor coughs, nor sore-threats, nor suchlikes. I
don't know that I shouldn't starve outright, if it wasn't for the
ague; and even that is nothing now to what it used to be.'

I was quite horror-struck by this ghoulish speech; but Milly only
laughed gaily at the old woman's candour.

'If the doctors were as plain-spoken as you, I daresay they'd say
pretty much the same kind of thing, Mrs. Thatcher,' she said. 'How's
your grandson?'

'O, he's well enough, Miss Darrell. Naught's never in danger.--Peter,
come here, and see the young ladies.'

A poor, feeble, pale-faced, semi-idiotic-looking boy came slowly out
of the dark little bedroom, and stood grinning at us. He had the
white sickly aspect of a creature reared without the influence of
air and light; and I pitied him intensely as he stood there staring
and grinning in that dreadful hopeless manner.

'Poor Peter!' He's no better, I'm afraid,' said Milly gently.

'No, miss, nor never will be. He knows more than people think, and
has queer cunning ways of his own; but he'll never be any better or
wiser than he is now.'