“Susan, Susan!” she called quaveringly, and feebly patted the crochet quilt.
As if in answer, a hand fumbled at the door and opened it softly. Norry was standing there, tall and gaunt, holding in her apron, with both hands, something that looked like an enormous football.
“Miss Charlotte!” she whispered hoarsely, “here’s Susan for ye. He was out in the ashpit, an’ I was hard set to get him, he was that wild.”
Even as she spoke there was a furious struggle in the blue apron.
“God in Heaven! ye fool!” ejaculated Charlotte. “Don’t let him go!” She shut the door behind Norry. “Now, give him to me.”
Norry opened her apron cautiously, and Miss Charlotte lifted out of it a large grey tom-cat.
“Be quiet, my heart’s love,” she said, “be quiet.”
The cat stopped kicking and writhing, and, sprawling up on to the shoulder of the magenta dressing-gown, turned a fierce grey face upon his late captor. Norry crept over to the bed, and put back the dirty chintz curtain that had been drawn forward to keep out the draught of the door. Mrs. Mullen was lying very still; she had drawn her knees up in front of her, and the bedclothes hung sharply from the small point that they made. The big living old woman took the hand of the other old woman who was so nearly dead, and pressed her lips to it.
“Ma’am, d’ye know me?”
Her mistress opened her eyes.