It was a long hard fight that, but Harry was young and hopeful, he had much to live for, and he won the victory, but only to be left weak as a little child, and unable to stir from his humble bed.
As soon as he could crawl about, by the help of a stick, Harry’s steps were directed to Gutter-alley, where, after a long and painful walk, he stood leaning against a wall for support, feeling deadly faint, for there was another funeral at Number 5.
“From which room?” he asked huskily, for there was one of the court women at his side.
“Second floor front,” was the reply, and the young man groaned, impotent to ask further questions.
“Is it—is it?” he could say no more; but the woman divined his thoughts.
“No, no!” she answered eagerly, “the poor darling has been spared. It is the old man who is gone to his long home. Jenny has been about this fortnight now, and nursed the old man through it all.”
“Was it fever?” asked Harry, more for the sake of speaking than from curiosity, for he wanted to conceal his weakness as far as he could.
“Some say it was; but I don’t think so,” she replied. “But you ought to be at home, with the rain falling like this. Why, you look fit to be in your bed and nowhere else.”
“Yes, yes,” said Harry, “I’ll go soon.”
“He was very old,” said the woman; “I knew him years ago, when I lived over there, before he broke his leg. I’ve been to see Jenny, God bless her! She’s half brokenhearted, and has now no one to look up to.”