Though I hevn't thanked ye half anoof for the comfiter--the wrapraskil, as they call't.

My feckins, it's a beauty.

But ye look very whaite and sadly, Miss Tiny; I doubt ye're poorly; an' this walking i' th' wet isn't good for ye.' 'O yes, it is indeed,' said Caterina, hastening out, and taking up her umbrella from the kitchen floor.

'I must really go now; so good-bye.' She tripped off, calling Rupert, while the good gardener, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, stood looking after her and shaking his head with rather a melancholy air.
'She gets moor nesh and dillicat than iver,' he said, half to himself and half to Hester.

'I shouldn't woonder if she fades away laike them cyclamens as I transplanted.