"I have been running miles, I think, and my knees are shaking so," she explained. And Barnabas lifted her in his arms again, and carried her up.
"Good-night!" said Tom good-naturedly, "or good-morning, which is it? Next time ye go in for these high jinks, Barnabas' wife, do 'ee choose a finer night! Oh well," stretching himself, "dad needn't ha' been afear'd lest Barnabas should be too rough on her!"
CHAPTER IX.
One enemy is too much.
—Herbert.
It was the last day of August. The London plane trees were beginning to shed their leaves, that were choked with the season's dust; the air was still and hot, the West End nearly deserted.
The hatchment, that had been put up on Mr. Russelthorpe's death, still hung in Bryanston Square, but fresh straw was laid down in the street. This time, at least, all that the living could do to keep out death was being done.
Mr. Deane had had a relapse after the journey to London. Two nurses were in attendance, and the doctors came night and day.