Priscilla's face, which was the colour of an ancient nutmeg, and
almost as deeply marked with contrasting lines of brown and
yellow, showed no emotion.

"He ain't hisself," she said, bluntly.

"No," said Innocent, seriously,--"I'm sure he isn't." Priscilla
jerked her sunbonnet a little further back, showing some tags of
dusty grey hair.

"He ain't been hisself for this past year," she went on--"Mr.
Slowton, bein' only a kind of village physic-bottle, don't know
much, an' yer uncle ain't bin satisfied. Now there's another
doctor from London staying up 'ere for 'is own poor 'elth, and yer
Uncle said he'd like to 'ave 'is opinion,--so Mr. Slowton, bein'
obligin' though ignorant, 'as got 'im in to see yer Uncle, and
there they both is, in the best parlour, with special wine an'
seedies on the table."

"Oh, it'll be all right!" said Robin, cheerfully,--"Uncle Hugo is
getting old, of course, and he's a bit fanciful."

Priscilla sniffed the air.

"Mebbe--and mebbe not! What are you two waitin' for now?"

"For the men to come back with Roger. Then we'll haul home."

"You'll 'ave to wait a bit longer, I'm thinkin'," said Priscilla--