'A strange old nurse I make, Miss Macnamara. But what can I do? Mrs. Sturk has left me in charge, and faith I believe our patient's looking mighty badly.'
He had observed Miss Mag glancing from him to the dumb figure in the bed with a puzzled kind of horror.
The fact is, Sturk's face had a leaden tint; he looked, evidently enough, even in that dim candle-light, a great deal worse than the curious Miss Mag was accustomed to see him.
'He's very low, to-night, and seems oppressed, and his pulse is failing; in fact, my dear young lady, he's plainly worse to-night than I like to tell poor Mrs. Sturk, you understand.'
'And his face looks so shiny and damp-like,' said Miss Mag, with a horrible sort of scrutiny.
'Exactly so, Miss, 'tis weakness,' observed Dangerfield.
'And you were wiping it with your pocket-handkerchief when I looked in,' continued Miss Mag.
'Was I—ha, ha—'tis wonderful how quick we learn a new business. I vow I begin to think I should make a very respectable nursetender.'
'And what the dickens brings him up here?' asked Miss Mag of herself; so soon as the first shock was over, the oddity of the situation struck her as she looked with perplexed and unpleasant sort of enquiry at Mr. Dangerfield.
Just then up came the meek little Mrs. Sturk, and the gentleman greeted her with a 'Well, Madam, I have not left his bedside since you went down; and I think he looks a little better—just a little—eh?'