"And the French 'oman sleeps 'ere?" said Beck, musingly.

"French 'oman! Master Beck, nothing's so vulgar as these nicknames in a
first-rate sitivation. It is all very well when one lives with
skinflints, but with such a master as our'n, respect's the go. Besides,
Madame is not a French 'oman; she is one of the family,--and as old a
family it is, too, as e'er a lord's in the three kingdoms. But come,
your curiosity is satisfied now, and you must trot back to your horses."

As Beck returned to the stables, his mind yet more misgave him as to the
criminal designs of his master's visitor. It was from Helen's room that
the false cripple had walked, and the ill health of the poor young lady
was a general subject of compassionate comment. But Madame Dalibard was
Helen's relation: from what motive could she harbour an evil thought
against her own niece? But still, if those drops were poured into the
healing draught for good, why so secretly? Once more he revolved the
idea of speaking to St. John: an accident dissuaded him from this
intention,--the only proof to back his tale was the mysterious phial he
had carried away; but unluckily, forgetting that it was in his pocket, at
a time when he flung off his coat to groom one of the horses, the bottle
struck against the corn-bin and broke; all the contents were spilt. This
incident made him suspend his intention, and wait till he could obtain
some fresh evidence of evil intentions. The day passed without any other
noticeable occurrence. The doctor called, found Helen somewhat better,
and ascribed it to his medicines, especially to the effect of his tonic
draught the first thing in the morning. Helen smiled. "Nay, Doctor,"
said she, "this morning, at least, it was forgotten. I did not find it
by my bedside. Don't tell my aunt; she would be so angry." The doctor
looked rather discomposed.