For a second, Safford almost thought the whole thing had been an optical illusion, or some hallucination of his own brain; then, stepping forward, he saw the old man lying in a heap upon the ground.
The young lady, recovering immediately from her sudden fright at the unexpected blaze, had seen the workman fall, and, coming up, asked, in a terrified voice,—
“What is the matter? Oh, he is dead!” she exclaimed, kneeling down beside him.
“No, he is not dead. Run for some brandy—quick!” Mr. Safford called to the nearest hand. Then, assisted by one of the men, he raised the prostrate figure, not a heavy burden, and carried it out into the open air.
“I allus thought old Simlin’d come to this,” said the man who had helped in carrying him. “We all knowd he was over-workin’ himself.”
“Why? Was he so feeble?” asked Mr. Safford, while he bathed the grimy forehead with his wet handkerchief.
“Feebil? He’s that feebil he’s just been of a trembil all over; and he’s getting pretty much used up here, too,” said the man, dropping his voice, and significantly touching his forehead. “It’s my idee he’s not booked for this world much longer.”
“Poor man!” said Miss Helen, leaning tenderly over the pale face that still showed no symptoms of returning consciousness; “how very thin and emaciated he is! Has he no wife or family to take care of him?”
“That’s just it, ma’am! That’s just what he’s allus harpin’ on! He says he ain’t got no relatives, and nobody to look after, and—”
The young lady suddenly raised her hand with a warning gesture; and, before the workman had ceased speaking, old Simlin opened his eyes. He looked around for a moment in a bewildered way; then his uncertain glance, falling upon the gentleman kneeling by his side, immediately became fixed, and grew into a wild stare. Raising himself unsteadily upon his elbow, still with his eyes fixed upon him, the old man threw out his trembling arm with a gesture as if addressing the whole company,—