"Why, Mrs. Kay," he said, "I did not know that you was here."
She started nervously at the sound of his voice, for she was very weak, and when she spoke her words were not gracious.
"Goodness me, boy! No more did I know that you was here; but that's no reason why you should startle me so. I've been very ill, and the least thing goes through me."
"I've been ill, too," said Bert, with some importance. "I met with an accident on Jubilee Day, and they brought me in here."
"Why, I was taken ill at the Jubilee, too," said Mrs. Kay; "I had a kind of a fit, and they could not bring me round, so I was carried to the hospital. I've been awfully bad in my head since; but I'm better now, though I don't feel good for much. No more Jubilees for me. It was the heat and the squeezing that did it."
But as she spoke Mrs. Kay knew well that it was not the heat alone that had caused her illness. Her intemperate habits were accountable for it. One of the medical men had told her this very plainly, and had, moreover, warned her that if she did not give up the drink, her life would soon come to an end. And Mrs. Kay was very depressed and miserable. She shrank from the thought of illness and death, yet she felt powerless to resist the wretched craving, which even now possessed her, for the stimulant in which she had so long indulged.
"You look very bad," said Bert sympathetically; "are you really better?"
"Oh, I suppose so," she said, with a heavy sigh. "They're going to send me home in a day or two."
"Where's your home?" asked Bert.
"That's no business of yours," said she sharply; "it's not much of a home, I'm thinking, for there's no one in it to care whether I die or live."