Here Dr Haynes, already a mature man, took up his abode with his sister
in the year 1810. The dignity had long been the object of his wishes, but
his predecessor refused to depart until he had attained the age of
ninety-two. About a week after he had held a modest festival in
celebration of that ninety-second birthday, there came a morning, late in
the year, when Dr Haynes, hurrying cheerfully into his breakfast-room,
rubbing his hands and humming a tune, was greeted, and checked in his
genial flow of spirits, by the sight of his sister, seated, indeed, in
her usual place behind the tea-urn, but bowed forward and sobbing
unrestrainedly into her handkerchief. 'What--what is the matter? What bad
news?' he began. 'Oh, Johnny, you've not heard? The poor dear
archdeacon!' 'The archdeacon, yes? What is it--ill, is he?' 'No, no; they
found him on the staircase this morning; it is so shocking.' 'Is it
possible! Dear, dear, poor Pulteney! Had there been any seizure?' 'They
don't think so, and that is almost the worst thing about it. It seems to
have been all the fault of that stupid maid of theirs, Jane.
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