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Updated: May 18, 2025
They greeted each other cordially and walked on together. Watson also was a member of the minister's flock. Mr. Drew felt suddenly moved to unburden himself. 'That was Costrell's wife, Watson, wasn't it, poor thing? 'Aye, it wor Mrs. Costrell, said Watson, in the tone of concern natural to the respectable husband and father. The minister sighed.
Talk had begun to reach him, and he said to himself to-night as he saw her that Isaac Costrell's wife was going to ruin. The thought oppressed him, pricked his pastoral conscience. Isaac was his right-hand man: dull to all the rest of the world, but not dull to the minister. With Mr. Drew sometimes he would break into talk of religion, and the man's dark eyes would lose their film.
Talk had begun to reach him, and he said to himself to-night, as he saw her, that Isaac Costrell's wife was going to ruin. The thought oppressed him, pricked his pastoral conscience. Isaac was his right-hand man: dull to all the rest of the world, but not dull to the minister. With Mr. Drew sometimes he would break into talk of religion, and the man's dark eyes would lose their film.
"Here on the baby," said Mrs. Maisie. And there on the baby, enjoying, in a holy sleep, deep draughts of imaginary milk, was Dave's large round-hand epistle. The doctor glanced at it, and had the presence of mind to say: "Ho! letter from a kid!" and suppress it. "Your Granny wants something," said he, diverting Mrs. Costrell's attention from it. The old lady was rallying visibly.
Another trot sounded from the opposite direction. It was Farmer Costrell's cart, and Ruth was in it, driven by her son-in-law. She was bringing some evergreens to place upon the body. Too anxious to remain in ignorance about her daughter, she had walked over to Denby's while it was still almost dark, and had found a new granddaughter and its mother, both doing well.
She is my youngest. She's married to John Costrell's son at Denby's farm. Maisie. Her first little boy is just over a year old." Old Maisie brightened, interested, at the name. A young Maisie, so near at hand! "My own name!" she said. "To think of that!" Yet, after all, the name was a common one. "Called after her grandmother," said Ruth Thrale, equably chattily.
Then he drove as fast as he could to Sir Cropton Fuller, who asked him to stay to lunch. This meant a long unemployed delay, but he compromised. He would see another patient, and return to lunch, after which he would go to Costrell's Farm.
With Sir Spencer Derrick here, and the Openshaws!" "I'll be back if I can. Can't say more than that! Good-bye!" And the Countess had to be content. The story is rather sorry for her, for it is a bore to have a lot of guests on one's hands, without due family support. The grey mare's long stride left John Costrell's fat cob a mile behind, in less than two.
It's sixpence 'ere, an' sixpence there, allus dribblin', an' dribblin', out ov 'er. I've allus tole 'er as she'll end 'er days on the parish." "Sixpences!" said Watson, with a laugh. "It's not sixpences as Mrs. Costrell's 'ad the spendin' of this last month or two it's suverins an' plenty ov 'em. You may be sure you've got the wrong tale about the money, John; it wor a deal more nor you say."
Lisbeth she says to me, 'Some do say they have to keep their eyes open to tell the old la'adies apart, she says. 'But I'm anoother way o' thinking mysen, she says, 'by reason of this Mrs. Prichard's white head o' hair. And then I handed all the letters to Lisbeth for Strides, as well as her own, seeing ne'er one came out at door for knocking, and brought yowern on with Farmer Costrell's." Mr.
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