But when she returned with the steaming cup, Michael seemed in no haste to drink it.
"Mrs. Wiggins," he said slowly, as he held his spoon suspended, "do you know where that lady lives?"
"What lady?" she asked.
"Why, the lady whose little girl is ill, Mrs. Lavers of course."
"Certainly I knows where she lives. It's in Clarendon Gardens, No. 48. My cousin works for 'er landlady, and she's told me about 'er many times."
"Never mind that," said Michael. "I don't want to hear about your cousin. I just want you to go round to the house and ask how the little girl is. Never mind your work. Go at once; do you hear?"
Mrs. Wiggins did hear, and, startled by the peremptory manner in which Michael spoke, she prepared to go at once.
The house was but a little way off, but she was gone more than half an hour, having lingered to talk with her cousin. Michael awaited her return in painful suspense.
"Well?" he said, when at last she appeared.
"She's no better," said Mrs. Wiggins; "the doctor gives little 'ope, and 'er poor mar's in a terrible state about 'er."