"No, dear, not worse than usual. Why, Dick, folks would think I was a grand body, if they knew how careful you were of me."
"I want you to see the doctor, mother. You do look ill and bad!" declared Dick gravely.
"That's nonsense! It's the cold that nips me up," was the prompt return. "'Tis freezing hard to-night again. I shouldn't be surprised if the ice on the lake bears soon. Then you and the children'll be able to go and watch the skating between whiles. Lord Bentford is certain to throw his grounds open to the public as usual. O—oh!"
"What made you cry out like that? Why, you've got your hand tied up! What's amiss with it?"
"There's a sore place on one of the fingers; and when I knocked it against the table, it made me cry out. 'Twill be easier in a minute;" and Mrs. Wilkins turned her face aside that Dick might not see it was drawn with pain.
"How long has your finger been bad?" the little boy demanded.
"Not more than a few days. I hurt it on Tuesday with a pin that one of the servants at the Manor House left in her apron when she gave it to me to wash; but I didn't bind it up till an hour ago."
"And you've been working with it sore all day!" cried Dick, in much concern. "Hasn't it pained you, mother?"
His mother confessed that it had been painful, but that a pennyworth of ointment would soon put it to rights. Dick, however, insisted on her seeing the doctor, who told her that her finger had been poisoned by the stab of the pin. He told her, too, that her blood had got into an unhealthy state, and that she must have plenty of good food if she was to get well.
The poor woman was in despair. One by one her few remaining sticks of furniture were sold for bread. Poor Dick was sure that God would never desert them, and that help would soon arrive.