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The bell stopped tolling, and we listened for the sound which would tell us the sex and age of the departed. "One!" Then silence. That meant a man. Ellen Armathwaite's baby girl it could not be. Then the bell began again, and we counted. It tolled on up to twenty thirty forty: we could not think who it could be.
This morning, just after I came down there were only my Aunt Kezia, Mr Keith, Flora, and me in the dining-parlour we suddenly heard the great bell of Brocklebank Church begin to toll. My Aunt Kezia set down the chocolate-pot. "It must be somebody who has died suddenly, poor soul!" cried she. "Maybe, Ellen Armathwaite's baby: it looked very bad when I saw it last, on Thursday. Hark!"
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