She crept to the door and knocked faintly.
Mr. Kemper, who had just finished his supper, rose and opened it.
“Come in,” he said. “This is a public house, and I presume no one will object,” he added, catching sight of the ragged, dripping figure.
She stepped in, staggered to the fire and dropped down on the floor beside it.
“Drunk!” he muttered, with a gesture of disgust.
“No, no, John! she is ill—starving perhaps!—poor thing! poor thing!” cried his keener-sighted wife, springing forward, barely in time to catch the sleeping babe as the weary arms relaxed their hold and the wanderer sank back against the wall in a state of semi-insensibility, her eyes closed and not a trace of color on cheek or lip.
“She’s dying!” exclaimed Mr. Kemper in a frightened whisper; and rushing to the inner door, “Somebody run for a doctor, quick! here is a woman who seems to be very ill!” he cried hurriedly.
“None to be had within three or four mile,” returned a gruff voice from the table. “What ails the woman? and who is she?”
“I don’t know; but something must be done.”
“Give her a cup of your tea, Irene,” said the voice.