The crone was not so dazzled with Lady Penelope's dignity or bounty as to endure her reprimand with patience.

"They that had their bread to won wi' ae arm," she said, for the other hung powerless by her side, "had mair to do than to soop hooses; if her leddyship wad let her ain idle quean of a lass take the besom, she might make the house as clean as she liked; and madam wad be a' the better of the exercise, and wad hae done, at least, ae turn of wark at the week's end." "Do you hear the old hag, my lord ?" said Lady Penelope.

"Well, the poor are horrid ungrateful wretches--And the wine, dame--the wine ?" "The wine!--there was hardly half a mutchkin, and puir, thin, fusionless skink it was--the wine was drank out, ye may swear--we didna fling it ower our shouther--if ever we were to get good o't, it was by taking it naked, and no wi' your sugar and your slaisters--I wish, for ane, I had ne'er kend the sour smack o't.

If the bedral hadna gien me a drap of usquebaugh, I might e'en hae died of your leddyship's liquor, for"---- Lord Etherington here interrupted the grumbling crone, thrusting some silver into her grasp, and at the same time begging her to be silent.
The hag weighed the crown-piece in her hand, and crawled to her chimney-corner, muttering as she went,--"This is something like--this is something like--no like rinning into the house and out of the house, and geeing orders, like mistress and mair, and than a puir shilling again Saturday at e'en." So saying, she sat down to her wheel, and seized, while she spun, her jet-black cutty pipe, from which she soon sent such clouds of vile mundungus vapour as must have cleared the premises of Lady Penelope, had she not been strong in purpose to share the expected confession of the invalid.

As for Miss Digges, she coughed, sneezed, retched, and finally ran out of the cottage, declaring she could not live in such a smoke, if it were to hear twenty sick women's last speeches; and that, besides, she was sure to know all about it from Lady Penelope, if it was ever so little worth telling over again.
Lord Etherington was now standing beside the miserable flock-bed, in which lay the poor patient, distracted, in what seemed to be her dying moments, with the peevish clamour of the elder infant, to which she could only reply by low moans, turning her looks as well as she could from its ceaseless whine to the other side of her wretched couch, where lay the unlucky creature to which she had last given birth; its shivering limbs imperfectly covered with a blanket, its little features already swollen and bloated, and its eyes scarce open, apparently insensible to the evils of a state from which it seemed about to be speedily released.
"You are very ill, poor woman," said Lord Etherington; "I am told you desire a magistrate." "It was Mr.Mowbray of St.Ronan's, whom I desired to see--John Mowbray of St.Ronan's--the lady promised to bring him here." "I am not Mowbray of St.Ronan's," said Lord Etherington; "but I am a justice of peace, and a member of the legislature--I am, moreover, Mr.
Mowbray's particular friend, if I can be of use to you in any of these capacities." The poor woman remained long silent, and when she spoke it was doubtfully.
"Is my Lady Penelope Penfeather there ?" she said, straining her darkened eyes.
"Her ladyship is present, and within hearing," said Lord Etherington.
"My case is the worse," answered the dying woman, for so she seemed, "if I must communicate such a secret as mine to a man of whom I know nothing, and a woman of whom I only know that she wants discretion." "I--I want discretion!" said Lady Penelope; but at a signal from Lord Etherington she seemed to restrain herself; nor did the sick woman, whose powers of observation were greatly impaired, seem to be aware of the interruption.