"Do be quiet," he cried; but Mrs. Wiggins, excited by the sight of his suffering, was not disposed to hold her tongue till she had fully relieved her mind. She began to suggest one patent remedy after another, and showed a remarkable acquaintance with all the quack medicines of the day. But Michael refused to try any of them. He had hardly ever been ill in his life, and he did not in the least know what to do with himself, or how to bear his pain.
It grew worse as the day wore on, and though Mrs. Wiggins made him a good fire, and he sat over it, he could not get warm. It was hopeless to think of attending to business. He was obliged to give in at last, and allow the shop door to be closed, whilst he was ignominiously helped up to bed by Mrs. Wiggins.
"Now you'd better let me send for a doctor," she said.
"No, indeed," he replied with energy. "I want no doctor yet. You don't suppose I can afford to send for a doctor every time I have an ache or pain?"
"Maybe not," she said, "but it seems to me you're pretty bad now."
"Folks don't die of rheumatics," he said.
"Oh, don't they?" she returned. "I've known a many cases in which they 'ave. Rheumatics is no joke. They're apt to seize on the 'eart, don't you know?"
And with this comforting reflection she left him.
As Michael lay there in pain and misery, he was reminded of a childish voice, which had said:
"I should think you would cross soon, Mr. Betts, for you are so very old."