"Well, I don't wish you to go," said Slade, in a very decided way.
"I can't help that, Simon. Mary, I'm told, is dying, and Joe is in
a dreadful way. I'm needed there--and so are you, as to that
matter. There was a time when, if word came to you that Morgan or
his family were in trouble--"
"Do hush, will you!" exclaimed the landlord, angrily. "I won't be
preached to in this way any longer."
"Oh, well; then don't interfere with my movements, Simon; that's
all I have to say. I'm needed over there, as I just said, and I'm
going."
There were considerable odds against him, and Slade, perceiving
this, turned off, muttering something that his wife did not hear,
and she went on her way. A hurried walk brought her to the
wretched home of the poor drunkard, whose wife met her at the
door.
"How is Mary?" was the visitor's earnest inquiry.
Mrs. Morgan tried to answer the question; but, though her lips
moved, no sounds issued therefrom.
Mrs. Slade pressed her hands tightly in both of hers; and then
passed in with her to the room where the child lay. A stance
sufficed to tell Mrs. Slade that death had already laid his icy
fingers upon her brow.
"How are you, dear?" she asked, as she bent over and kissed her.
"Better, I thank you!" replied Mary, in a low whisper.
Then she fixed her eyes upon her mother's face with a look of
inquiry.
"What is it, love?"
"Hasn't father waked up yet?"
"No, dear."
"Won't he wake up soon?"
"He's sleeping very soundly.
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