"You don't ask what brought him here last night, Mary?"
Mrs. Reardon looked up quickly, and a tear fell upon her delicate work when Matthew told her the good news.
"It is almost a pity that Mr. Heighington did not think of it before," said he, with a sigh.
"Let us be thankful to him for thinking of it now."
But she never remembered to thank God any more than her husband had done.
"The first thing we do with the money," continued she, "must be to see some one about that cough of yours, Matthew."
"It will be soon enough to think of spending when I have earned it," observed Reardon, with a weary smile, as he sat down and began to write rapidly, in order to make up, as he said, for lost time.
Mrs. Reardon quietly resumed her work, while the little children, in their shadowy corner, spoke together in whispers for fear of disturbing him, and the flying pen went scratch—scratch—scratch far into the night.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
KATE DONALDSON.