"Can I speak to Mrs. Lavers for a minute?" he asked of the maid who opened the door.
The girl looked at him, and hesitated. Then she asked him to step inside, and closed the door behind him, whilst she went to speak to some one in the little back parlour. In a moment she reappeared and beckoned to him to advance. He did so, and entering the room, found himself in the presence of Mrs. Lavers.
She stood leaning against the mantel-piece. In her hand was the prescription the doctor had just written. Her face was utterly colourless, save for the pinkened eyelids which testified to recent tears, and had the wan, strained look which tells of protracted sleeplessness. She looked surprised to see Michael, but greeted him kindly.
"Are you better, Mr. Betts? You do not look good for much yet. Are you wise to come out to-day?"
"How is the little lady, ma'am?" Michael asked, ignoring her inquiries respecting himself.
"No better, I fear," answered the lady, with a quiver in her voice. "It is terrible to see her suffer so. And the doctor holds out only the faintest hope."
"There are other doctors in London, ma'am," said Michael. "If he cannot find a remedy, another may."
"Ah, yes; but—"
Michael was trembling from excessive weakness and emotion. He could not speak; it seemed impossible to explain. He could only go up to her and put the bank-notes in her hand.