Hearing a voice not more formidable than her own, the person within partially opened the door; and, whilst shading with one hand the candle she held in the other, gazed out upon the speaker.
"Does Mr. McCloskey live here?" repeated Lizzie.
"Yes, he does," answered the woman, in a weak voice; "but he's got the typers."
"Has the what?" inquired Lizzie, who did not exactly understand her.
"Got the typers—got the fever, you know."
"The typhus fever!" said Lizzie, with a start; "then he is really sick."
"Really sick!" repeated the woman—"really sick! Well, I should think he was! Why, he's been a raving and swearing awful for days; he stormed and screamed so loud that the neighbours complained. Law! they had to even shave his head."
"Is he any better?" asked Lizzie, with a sinking heart. "Can I see him?"
"'Praps you can, if you go to the hospital to-morrow; but whether you'll find him living or dead is more than I can say. I couldn't keep him here—I wasn't able to stand him. I've had the fever myself—he took it from me. You must come in," continued the woman, "if you want to talk—I'm afraid of catching cold, and can't stand at the door. Maybe you're afraid of the fever," she further observed, as she saw Lizzie hesitate on the door-step.
"Oh, no, I'm not afraid of that," answered Lizzie quickly—"I am not in the least afraid."