"What's the use of going to bed?" demanded her husband. "I'm all right here, but the moment I lie down, I begin to cough."
"I think your cough seems worse than usual of late," said Mrs. Reardon, anxiously.
"I don't know about its being worse, but it's bad enough. The end of it will be that I shall have to sit up all night."
"I hope not. But this cold room will not do it any good."
"I wish I knew what would do it good," said Matthew.
"Does it hurt you?" asked Mrs. Reardon.
"Not very much; but it hinders me from sleeping, and unfits me for my work next day. Not that I should mind the pain in my head and side if it did not make my hand shake so. I have been expecting them to find fault with my writing every time I take it back."
"Could you not have some advice about your cough?"
"Plenty, I dare say, if I had only the money to pay for it. Or I might go to some hospital or dispensary, and make it worse, perhaps, waiting about hour after hour in the cold, besides losing a day's work."
"You have had your cough a long time, Matthew," said his wife.