“Yes, sir, I am,” said the old woman, in a precise manner. “My youngest grandchild is dying.”
“How old?”
“Five and a half, sir.”
“Of what is she dying?”
“Diphtheria, sir,” said the old woman humbly.
“And if the poor little kid dies that will reduce the number of small orphans in your family to four, will it not?”
“It will, sir.”
Northcote stood looking at the old woman for a moment and then changed the subject abruptly.
“Mrs. Brown,” he said, “I have had a windfall. For the time being I am a rich man; and I may say that one of these days I expect to be very much richer. And although your poor little grandchild is dying, I think we owe it to Providence to celebrate this occasion in a fitting manner. Never mind about the fire and the water for my bath. I want you to get a basket and do some shopping, somewhat as follows: one frying-pan, one pound of the choicest Wiltshire bacon, three moderately fresh eggs if money will buy them, which I expect it will not, one pot of marmalade, one pound of the most expensive butter and a loaf of bread, a pound of tea, price half a crown, and a pint of milk. Now get along, if you please, and I will light the fire.”
The blank stupefaction on the face of Mrs. Brown conveyed to Northcote that he had forgotten to give her the money.