"You've got bronchitis," said Mrs. Hearty with conviction. "Put the kettle on before you go out, Joe."
"Leave me alone," moaned Mrs. Bindle. "Oh! I don't want to die, I don't want to die."
"You ain't goin' to die, Lizzie," said Bindle, bending over her, anxiety in his face. "You're goin' to live to be a 'undred."
"You go an' fetch a doctor, Joe. I'll see to 'er," and Mrs. Hearty proceeded to remove her elaborate black plush cape.
"I don't want a doctor," moaned Mrs. Bindle. In her heart was a great fear lest he should confirm her own fears that death was at hand; but Bindle had disappeared on his errand of mercy, and Mrs. Hearty was wheezing and groaning as, with arms above her head, she strove to discover the single hat-pin with which she had fixed the tam-o-shanter to her scanty hair.
"There's two rashers of bacon and an egg on the top shelf of the larder for Joe's breakfast," murmured Mrs. Bindle hoarsely.
Mrs. Hearty nodded as she passed out of the door.
In spite of her weight and the shortness of her breath, she descended to the kitchen. When Bindle returned, he found the bedroom reeking with the smell of vinegar. Mrs. Bindle was sitting up in bed, a towel enveloping her head, so that the fumes of the boiling vinegar should escape from the basin only by way of her bronchial tubes.
"'Ow is she?" he asked anxiously.
"She's all right," gasped Mrs. Hearty. "Is 'e coming?"