Poor boy," she went on soliloquizing, "he shall have a drop or two to comfort his stomach, and keep the chill out." The poor boy, lying _perdu_, shuddered at the word chill, and really wished his aunt would hold her tongue.

But she didn't.
"Maybe now," the affectionate old creature proceeded, "maybe Simon was vexed at what I let drop last night about the money.

I know he loves his sister Scott, as I do: but it'll seem hard, too, to leave him nothing.

I must make my will some day, I 'spose; but don't half like the job: it's always so nigh death.

Yes--yes, dear Si shall have a snug little corner." The real Simon Pure, in his own snug little corner, writhed again.