"Who's that?" said he, in his own sharp, fretful voice.
"Me, Tom. But don't speak. Sit down till your cough's over."
Tom grasped her hand as she stood by him, but he made no further demonstration, nor used any expression of gratitude. He seemed far too ill. Sick people are always absorbed in the sad present; they seldom trouble themselves much about the past. Only there was something in the way Tom clung to her hand, helplessly, imploringly, that moved the inmost heart of Elizabeth.
"I'm very bad, you see. This cough; oh, it shakes me dreadfully; especially of nights."
"Have you any doctor?"
"The druggist close by, or rather, the druggist's shopman. He's a very kind young fellow, from our county, I fancy, for he asked me once if I wasn't a Stowbury man; and ever since he has doctored me for nothing, and given me a shilling too, now and then, when I've been a'most clemmed to death in the winter."
"Oh, Tom, why didn't you write to me before. Have you actually wanted food?"
"Yes, many a time. I've been out of work this twelvemonth."
"But Esther?"
"Who?" screamed Tom.