Whether or no Isaac Meads took in the sense of Mrs. Simmons' eager words may be doubted. His lack-lustre eyes did not wander from her face; but when she paused there was only a low and renewed mutter about "expense."
"You've got a nurse," said Mrs. Simmons shortly.
"She's come. I didn't get her," said Isaac, with something of energy. "It wasn't my doing, and she's nought to me. She was my servant once, but she isn't now. It wasn't none of my doing."
"It don't seem half as if you counted Miss Daisy to be your own," said Betsy Simmons. "Not much good asking of you how she is. I'd best go and see for myself."
Without more ado Mrs. Simmons quitted the parlour, and went straight across to the little back room where she knew Daisy Meads slept.
It was a sunshiny room on a summer evening, and the blinds were partially lowered, so as to lessen the glare. But the sun was near his setting, and some warm red rays crept in below those frail and aged blinds, to fall upon Daisy's white face.
She was lying quite quietly, and with no sign of suffering about her, except in the occasional twitchings round the mouth. Mary Davis stood beside the bed, looking earnestly, when Mrs. Simmons entered; and neither woman showed surprise at the sight of the other.
"I'm come to see if I can be of use," Mrs. Simmons said. "Poor little dear! It's bad, isn't it, Mrs. Davis? And she don't come round yet?"
"She's opened her eyes twice," Mary Davis answered; "but she don't seem to know nothing nor nobody. The doctor says the mischief isn't in the sight. He thought at first it might be that."
"Then that's something to be thankful for—if it isn't a worse mischief," said Mrs. Simmons. "She don't seem in pain neither."