“Little better, plase your honour; but I was always so about them _childer_ that I nursed.” “_Childer_! Well, get along about your business now; you see your nursing is not wanted here.” “I’ll not stir out of this, while he is here,” said my nurse, catching hold of the leg of the sofa, and clinging to it. “You’ll not stir, you say,” cried Captain Crawley: “Turn her out!” “Oh, sure you would not have the cru’lty to turn his old nurse out before he’s even _cowld_. And won’t you let me see him buried?” “Out with her! out with her! the old Irish hag! We’ll have no howling here. Out with her, John!” said Crawley to my groom. The groom hesitated, I fancy; for Crawley repeated the order more imperiously: “Out with her! or go yourself.” “May be it’s you that will go first yourself,” said she. “Go first myself!” cried Captain Crawley, furiously: “Are you insolent to _me_?” “And are not you cru’l to me, and to my child I nursed, that lies all as one as dead before you, and was a good friend to you in his day, no doubt?” Crawley seized hold of her: but she resisted with so much energy, that she dragged along with her the sofa to which she clung, and on which I lay. “Stop!” cried I, starting up. There was sudden silence. I looked round, but could not utter another syllable. Now, for the first time, I was sensible that I had been really hurt by the fall. My head grew giddy, and my stomach sick. I just saw Crawley’s fallen countenance, and him and the steward looking at one another; they were like hideous faces in a dream. I sunk back. “Ay, lie down, my darling; don’t be disturbing yourself for such as them,” said my nurse. “Let them do what they will with me; it’s little I’d care for them, if you were but once in safe hands.”