Isaac's fit of childish anger was at an end. He stared stolidly at the white face on the pillow.
Another figure had appeared on the scene, a capacious figure, filling a goodly space in the doorway.
"See, that's what he has done," Mary said bitterly, turning to Mrs. Simmons. "And the poor little darling was getting on so nicely. That's what he has done! I shouldn't wonder if he has killed her outright."
"What's he been after?" asked Mrs. Simmons, coming forward.
"Why, he's wanting her to get up and work, and save his coppers," said Mary. "She that hasn't power to lift her head off the pillow, nor to turn herself in bed! I doubt me sometimes she never will have power again. He loves his money a deal better than he loves his own flesh and blood. And I can't get him out of the room; and if she comes to and sees him here, I shouldn't wonder if it was as much as her life was worth."
"Well, that's a pretty piece of work, if there ever was one!" said Mrs. Simmons, contemplating the old man's crouching form. "Now then,—will you go, Mr. Meads?"
Mrs. Simmons was a large woman, and Isaac Meads was not a large man. He gave her a glance, and moved.
"Come, be quick!" said Betsy Simmons. "And mind, if ever you dare to come inside this door again, without the doctor's leave—"
The rest of the sentence was left to Isaac's imagination. He beat a hasty retreat.