"All cosy and comfortable?" she queried—"That's right!" Then entering the room, she showed him the very vest, the possible fate of which he had been considering.
"This is quite dry now,"—she said—"I've been thinking that perhaps as there are letters and papers inside, you'd like to have it near you,—so I'm just going to put it in here—see?" And she opened a small cupboard in the wall close to the bed—"There! Now I'll lock it up"—and she suited the action to the word—"Where shall I put the key?"
"Please keep it for me yourself!" he answered, earnestly,—"It will be safest with you!"
"Well, perhaps it will,"—she agreed. "Anyhow no one can get at your letters without my consent! Now, are you quite easy?"
And, as she spoke, she came and smoothed the bedclothes over him, and patted one of his thin, worn hands which lay, almost unconsciously to himself, outside the quilt.
"Quite!" he said, faintly, "God bless you!"
"And you too!" she responded—"Good-night—David!"
"Good-night—Mary!"
She went away with a light step, softly closing the door behind her. Returning to the kitchen she took up the little dog Charlie in her arms, and nestled him against her bosom, where he was very well content to be, and stood for a moment looking meditatively into the fire.
"Poor old man!" she murmured—"I'm so glad I found him before it was too late! He would have died out there on the hills, I'm sure! He's very ill—and so worn out and feeble!"