On reaching the cottage, the vicar hurried in first, to prepare Mrs Banks, expecting a burst of lamentation; but as soon as he had uttered his first words, Mrs Banks was cold and firm as a stone.
“Is he dead, sir?” she whispered; “tell me true.”
“No, no; and not much injured. I think it is a fit.”
“I wean’t give way, sir,” she panted; and running upstairs, she began to drag down a mattress and pillow, ready for the suffering man.
“Poor Joe, poor Joe!” she murmured, and then gave a start as she heard the word “Mother!”
“Ay, lass, I’d forgot thee in this new trouble.”
“But you will not send me away, mother?” whispered Daisy—“wait till you know all.”
“I send thee away, lass? Nay, nay, I shouldna do that now,” said Mrs Banks, sadly.
The next moment she was putting the pillow and arranging it beneath her husband’s head, as he was borne in, the men softly retiring, and giving place to the doctor, who hurried in, hot and panting.
“Ah, Selwood, what’s all this?” he said. “Give me a light quickly.”