“You can go where you like, wench, and see what you can; and an uncommon deal wiser you’ll be for your trouble.”

And yet, although Mr. Whitelaw gave his wife the candlestick with an air of profound indifference, there was an uneasy look in his countenance which she could plainly see, and which perplexed her not a little.

“Come, Mrs. Tadman,” she said decisively, “we had better see into this.  It was a woman’s voice, and must have been one of the girls, I suppose.  It may be nothing serious, after all,—­these country girls scream out for a very little,—­but we’d better get to the bottom of it.”

Mr. Whitelaw burst into a laugh—­and he was a man whose laughter was as unpleasant as it was rare.

“Ay, my wench, you’d best get to the bottom of it,” he said, “since you’re so uncommon clever.  Me and my friend will go back to the parlour, and take a glass of grog.”

The gentleman whom Mr. Whitelaw honoured with his friendship had stood a little way apart all this time, wiping his forehead with a big orange coloured silk handkerchief.  That blow upon his shin must have been rather a sharp one, if it had brought that cold sweat out upon his ashen face.

“Yes,” he muttered; “come along, can’t you? don’t stand cawing here all night;” and hurried downstairs before his host.

It had been all the business of a couple of minutes.  Ellen Whitelaw and Mrs. Tadman went down to the ground floor by another staircase leading directly to the kitchen.  The room looked comfortable enough, and the two servant-girls were sitting at a table near the fire.  One was a strapping rosy-cheeked country girl, who did all the household work; the other an overgrown clumsy-looking girl, hired straight from the workhouse by Mr. Whitelaw, from economical motives; a stolid-looking girl, whose intellect was of the lowest order; a mere zoophyte girl, one would say—­something between the vegetable and animal creation.

This one, whose name was Sarah Batts, was chiefly employed in the poultry-yard and dairy.  She had a broad brawny hand, which was useful for the milking of cows, and showed some kind of intelligence in the management of young chickens and the treatment of refractory hens.

Martha Holden, the house-servant, was busy making herself a cap as her mistress came into the kitchen, droning some Hampshire ballad by way of accompaniment to her work.  Sarah Batts was seated in an attitude of luxurious repose, with her arms folded, and her feet on the fender.

“Was it either of you girls that screamed just now?” Ellen asked anxiously.

“Screamed, ma’am! no, indeed,” Martha Holden answered, with an air of perfect good faith.  “What should we scream for?  I’ve been sitting here at my work for the last hour, as quiet as could be.”

“And, Sarah,—­was it you, Sarah?  For goodness’ sake tell the truth.”

“Me, mum! lor no, mum.  I was up with master showing him and the strange gentleman a light.”