Michael had finished his tea, and was resting in the big armchair, when the shop bell rang sharply, and Mrs. Wiggins came a few minutes later to say that a messenger had come, who wished to speak with the nurse. She went out to attend the summons, and Michael waited, wondering what it might mean. In a few minutes she returned, her demeanour betraying some excitement.
"I am sorry to say, Mr. Betts, that I must leave you this evening," she began; "at once, indeed. The doctor knows that you can do without me now, and he has sent to beg that I will go at once to Mrs. Lavers' house. Her little girl is very ill."
"Ill! The little girl!" exclaimed Michael, starting forward in his chair. "You don't mean that?"
"Indeed I do, unhappily. It's diphtheria she has, poor little dear, and that's a terrible thing with children. You won't mind my leaving you a few hours earlier?"
"Mind! Of course not. Go at once, nurse; go and do all you can for her. Oh, do try your utmost to save her life, for I—I love that little girl, nurse. I could not bear to hear that she was dead."
"You may be sure I shall do my best for her," she responded, looking at him in amazement. So he had the remnant of a heart after all, this poor old man.
[CHAPTER IX]
RESTITUTION
THE night that followed was a wretched one for Michael Betts. He could not sleep for thinking of poor little Margery stricken with the dire disease of childhood, which so often proves fatal.
He had spoken truly when he said that he loved the little winsome maiden; though it had but come to him as he spoke, with the flash of a sudden inspiration, that it was love, the feeling that drew him to little Margery and made him long to see her fair, wee face and to hear her sweet, childish voice. It was terrible to think of her dying, choked, poisoned by that terrible malady.