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Updated: May 12, 2025
It should go ill with us that dwell in the outskirts." "You say well, Gossip, in very deed. The blessed saints have a care of us! as metrusteth they shall." "Not they belike!" growled Mistress Winter, resuming her suspended proceedings with the frying-pan. "They shall be every one a-looking out for the Lady Jane." Mistress Flint came nearer, and replied in a mysterious whisper.
He had been too much absorbed in his grief to notice her approach, but when she spoke he looked up, showing the now tear-stained face of little Will Flint. "Why, Will, my little lad! what matter now?" Will burst into a fresh paroxysm without answering. "Metrusteth thou hast not been an ill lad?" Will shook his curly head. "Nay, what then? Is Mother sick?" Another shake. "Come, tell me what it is.
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