Again the cough was heard. It had a strange little moan at the end of it, almost like a suppressed cry.
"Oh!" exclaimed Phebe, this time feeling powerless to rise, but stretching out her hands to Jim Coates, "that is my husband coughing!"
Jim almost dashed his watch on the table and rushed towards her, taking hold of both of her hands.
"It's our lodger, Mrs. Waring, don't be skeered. Come up and see him, if you like, and then your mind will be easy."
"Yes, yes," whispered Phebe faintly, "in a minute I will."
She would have fallen on the stairs if Jim had not put his strong arm round her, but when she reached the sick man's room she was herself again, only that her breath seemed very short.
Just for an instant she stood at the foot of the bed, and then going to the side she took up one of his thin hands, and said gently: "Ralph, dear, why did you not come home?"
"I didn't want any fine folks about me."
"But I am not fine, I am your wife. You will come home now, won't you?"—the voice was full of pleading. "It is your home, I've kept the business on—it's yours, too."
"Of course it is." There was not one loving tone in the voice, but he was stroking her hand gently. He was glad she had come, glad of her gentle welcome, but he did not want to show it.