“The police, sir: if they come, they mustn’t take him away, must they?”
“Take him away?” said Oldroyd, wonderingly, “certainly not. I say he must not be moved. Here, I’ll write it down for you. It would be his death.”
He drew out his pocket-book to write a certificate as to the man’s state, and Judith took it, with an air approaching veneration, to fold it and place it in her bosom.
Just then the woman returned, and, after a whispering with Judith, asked Oldroyd to come down.
He glanced once more at his patient, and then followed the girl downstairs, where, in a rough but cleanly way, a cup of tea had been prepared and some bread and butter.
These proved to be so good that, feeling better for the refreshment, Oldroyd could not help noticing that, but for the traces of violent grief, Judith would have been extremely pretty.
“Will father get better, sir?” said the girl, pleadingly.
“Better? Yes, my girl,” said Oldroyd, wondering at the rustic maiden’s good looks. “There, there, don’t be foolish,” he continued, as the girl caught his hand to kiss it.
She shrank away, and coloured a little, when Oldroyd hastened to add more pleasantly,—
“I think he’ll soon be better.”