A few days after this, as Helps was taking his comfortable breakfast, cooked to perfection by Cherry's willing hands, he raised his eyes suddenly, looked across at his daughter Esther, and made a remark.
"I'm told poor young madam is in no end of a taking."
"What young madam, father?"
"Mrs. Wyndham. The nurse is going and the child has got whooping cough. He's bad, too, poor little 'un, and frets about the nurse like anything. My master's in a way, too; he's wrapped up in that little lad. It was he told me; he said perhaps you'd know of a nurse as would suit. Esther."
"Don't stare so, Cherry," said Esther. "Anybody would think father was talking of ghosts, to see the bigness of your eyes. Well, father, yes, I'll think about a nurse. I'm sorry the child is ill."
"Don't you go and get a nurse from the slums," retorted Cherry. "You're all slums, you are. My word, I am having a time since that new lodger took possession."
Here Cherry paused to pour fresh water into the tea-pot. Esther and her father exchanged frightened glances.
"Brother Jerome, indeed!" proceeded this energetic young person. "He's a mighty uneasy sort of Brother Jerome. His good deeds don't seem to quieten him, anyway. And why does he always keep a hat stuck on his head, and never raise it when he passes me on the stairs. I know I'm broad and I'm stout, and I've no looks to boast of, but it's meant for men to raise their hats to women, and I don't see why he shouldn't. Then at night he walks the boards overhead fit to work on anybody's nerves. I don't recite half so dramatic as I did, because I can't get my sleep unbroken."
"Your tongue ain't stopped, anyway," said her uncle, almost crossly. "Esther, you'll think about the nurse for young madam."
He rose and left the room.