It was very cold, though the thaw had set in, and the snow was gone--raw and damp with a penetrating chill, which is as bad as frost--or worse, some people think. And the new-comer sat over the fire, leaning forward in the high-backed horse-hair chair, and spreading out her hands to the warmth. She had given Mrs. Swayne a general invitation to come in for a chat in the afternoon, not knowing as yet how serious a business that was; and was now making the best of it, interposing a few words now and then, and yet not altogether without comfort in the companionship, the very hum of human speech having something consolatory in it. “If it’s been a fever, that’s a thing as will mend,” said Mrs. Swayne, “and well over too; and a thing as you don’t have more nor once. When it’s _here_, and there’s decline in the family--” she added, putting her hand significantly to her breast. “There’s no decline in my family,” said the lodger, quickly. “It was downright sickness always. No, she’s quite strong in her chest. I’ve always said it was a great blessing that they were all strong in their chests.” “And yet you have but this one left,” said Mrs. Swayne. “Dear, dear!--when it’s decline, it comes kind of natural, and you get used to it like. An aunt o’ mine had nine, all took one after the other, and she got that used to it, she’d tell you how it would be as soon as e’er a one o’ them began to droop; but when it’s them sort of masterful sicknesses as you can’t do nothing for--Deary me! all strong in their chests, and yet you have had so many and but this one left.” “Ay,” said the mother, wringing her thin hands with a momentary yet habitual action, “it’s hard when you’ve reared them so far, but you said it was good air here?” “Beautiful air, that’s what it is,” said Mrs. Swayne, enthusiastically; “and when she gets a bit stronger, and the weather gets milder, and he mends of his rheumatics, Swayne shall drive her out in his spring-cart. It’s a fine way of seeing the country--a deal finer, _I_ think, than the gentry in their carriages with a coachman on his box perched up afore them. I ain’t one as holds by much doctoring. Doctors and parsons, they’re all alike; and I don’t care if I never saw one o’ them more.” “Isn’t there a nice clergyman?” said the lodger--“it’s a nice church, for we saw it passing in the cart, and the child took a fancy to it. In the country like this, it’s nice to have a nice clergyman--that’s to say, if you’re church folks.”