"Watch me—watch me," he said.
"Ay, we must and we will!"
"You need not remind me of—of her!" cried Ryan, fiercely, all in a moment.
"Ah, poor thing, poor thing!" said Pound.
"Why, has anything happened?"
"Poor soul!"
"Speak, man, for God's sake! Is she—is she—"
Ryan could not get out the word, trembling as he was with intense excitement. Pound broke into a brutal laugh.
"No, Ned Ryan, she isn't dead, if that's what you want. I am sorry for you. Now that you're going to behave handsome, I should have liked to bring you good news. Yet, though she hangs on still, she's going down the hill pretty quick—her own way. But she's waiting for us three fields off; we'd better go to her before she comes to us. Come this way."
Pound led the way to the hay-field. Miles followed him, filled with foreboding. What had happened to Elizabeth? Was the woman ill? Was she dying? Bad as he was—bad as she was—could he go coldly on his way and let her die? He thought of her as he had seen her last, two months ago; and then strangely enough, he figured her as he had first seen her, many, many years ago. Poor thing! poor Liz!