"I think we are going to have a storm," said the soft voice of Mrs. Langton; "it will clear the air, perhaps. Doctor Morton says the weather has been so unhealthy; typhus so prevalent amongst the poor. He mentioned the case of a labourer who has just died, leaving a widow and nine children."
"Very sad, indeed," composedly replied Mrs. Brand; "but then you know, my dear, typhus is generally confined to the poor—which is a sort of comfort."
"It is not always the case," said Edith; "there have been several deaths amongst tradespeople."
"Ah! poor things, they have to deal with the poor, you see; but what I mean is, that it seldom goes higher up; which is a great comfort, you know; for what good would it do the poor that those above them should die?"
"None, of course. The doctor also mentioned another case—very sad too— such a fine young man, he had been told, an artist, I think; but he did not know his name, who is lying ill—all but given up."
"Really," said Mrs. Brand, "this gets quite alarming. Do you know whereabouts that unfortunate young man lives?"
Until then, I had listened to them as we listen to speech in which we take no interest. I was young, full of health; the evening air felt pleasant and fresh about me; and standing on that cool verandah above a fragrant garden, I recked not of the fevered dwellings where the poor perish, and of the sick chamber where even the rich man may be reached by death; but when Mrs. Langton spoke of the young artist who lay given up, I felt touched. When Mrs. Brand asked to know where he dwelt, I just turned my head a little to catch the reply of the beautiful Edith. She gave it carelessly.
"In a place called the Grove, I believe; is it far off?"
"Two miles away at least," complacently replied Mrs. Brand.
I know not how I entered the room; but I know that the two ladies screamed faintly, as they saw me stepping in, through the open window.