"Let me do that," said the girl eagerly. "I'm a rare hand at making a fire. But you did ought to keep a better fire than this, Mr. Betts. You don't know how to take care of yourself."
"Don't I?" said Michael. "Ah, and I've no daughter to take care of me, as your father has."
"Ah, poor father!" said the girl, her face clouding over.
"Is he worse?" asked Michael.
She nodded. "This cold wind is so bad for him," she said.
Observing the girl more closely, Michael saw that her face was wan and thin, with dark circles beneath the eyes.
"Set the kettle on the fire," he said, "and make yourself a cup of cocoa."
"No, thank you," she said. "I'll make a cup for you with pleasure; but none for me—thank you all the same."
"Well, put the kettle on," he said, thinking she might change her mind, "and then tell me all the doctor said."
"That's more than I can tell you," said the girl, with a smile; "but they say he is not without hope of pulling her through. He says the next twenty-four hours will decide it."