“They won’t trust me, child,” he said, gruffly.
“But I will trust you,” she said sweetly. “There is a little money hidden in the old clock there, which I saved from picking and selling berries. You can take it; there is enough.”
His eyes sparkled with a dangerous glitter.
“Money!” he exclaimed almost fiercely. “I didn’t know you had money. Why didn’t you tell me before? Didn’t you know it belonged by right to me?”
She sighed pitifully.
He staggered to the clock, fumbled about for a few moments, and soon found what he was seeking.
“Yes, I’ll go,” he said, excitedly. “Give me the prescription.”
He snatched it from her extended hand, opened the door and disappeared.
The night grew colder. The sick girl crept into bed and tossed and turned restlessly. The oil in the old lamp burned out. The windows rattled, a storm came, and rain and hail beat upon the window panes. The old clock struck the hour of midnight. The drunkard did not return.
Poor girl, her soul became filled with apprehension and fear for him.