"I have, sir. I could tell you things as would make your head
waggle with horror on there shoulders of yours."

"What about your son Sidney? Is he also wicked?"

"He would be if he had the strength, which he hasn't," exclaimed
the widow with uncomplimentary fervor. "He's Aaron's son, and
Aaron hadn't much to learn from them as is where he's gone too,"
and she looked downward significantly.

"Sidney is a decent young fellow," said Lucy sharply. "How dare
you miscall your own flesh and blood, Widow Anne? My father
thinks a great deal of Sidney, else he would not have sent him to
Malta. Do try and be cheerful, there's a good soul. Sidney will
tell you plenty to make you laugh, when he comes home."

"If he ever does come home," sighed the old woman.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, it's all very well asking questions as can't be answered
nohow, my lady, but I be all of a mubble-fubble, that I be."

"What is a mubble-fubble?" asked Hope, staring.

"It's a queer-like feeling of death and sorrow and tears of blood
and not lifting your head for groans," said Widow Anne
incoherently, "and there's meanings in mubble-fumbles, as we're
told in Scripture. Not but what the Perfesser's been a kind
gentleman to Sid in taking him from going round with the laundry