"They was, mum," said Mrs. Lake. "My husband's father's father
built this mill where we now stands. It cost him a deal of money,
and he died with a debt upon it. My husband's father paid un off;
and he meant to have built a house, mum, but he never did, worse
luck for us. He allus says, says he,--that's my husband's father,
mum,--'I'll leave that to Abel,'--that's my maester, mum. But nine
year ago come Michaelmas" -

Mrs. Lake's story was here interrupted by a frightful outburst of
coughing from the unfortunate baby, who on the removal of the
woollen shawl presented an appearance which would have been comical
but for the sympathy its condition demanded.

A very red and utterly shapeless little face lay, like a crushed
beet-root, in a mass of dainty laces almost voluminous enough to
have dressed out a bride. As a sort of crowning satire, the face in
particular was surrounded by a broad frill, spotted with bunches of
pink satin ribbon, and farther encased in a white satin hood of
elaborate workmanship and fringes.

The contrast between the natural red of the baby's complexion and
its snowy finery was ludicrously suggestive of an over-dressed
nigger, to begin with; but when, in the paroxysms of its cough, the
tiny creature's face passed by shades of plum-color to a bluish
black, the result was appalling to behold.

Mrs. Lake's experienced ears were not slow to discover that the
child had got whooping-cough, which the nurse confessed was the
case. She also apologized for bringing in the baby among Mrs.
Lake's children, saying that she had "thought of nothing but the