But she stood and watched him nevertheless.
"A friend of the Reardons," murmured she, as Marshall knocked at the door. "I didn't know they had a friend."
[CHAPTER IX.]
THE WORN-OUT COPYING MACHINE.
WHEN Marshall went in, he found Matthew Reardon sitting crouching over the dim fire, with his wife's shawl thrown over his knees to help to keep him warm, and looking greatly changed even in the short time since he had last seen him at the office.
"I am glad you are come," said he, holding out his thin wasted hand. "I was afraid you wouldn't after the very pressing invitation I gave you."
"If I remember rightly, I invited myself," returned Marshall, cheerfully. "At any rate, here I am. But I'm sorry to find you so unwell. Wouldn't he be better in bed, Mrs. Reardon?"
"I wish you could persuade him to think so, Mr. Marshall."
"What's the use of going to bed?" interrupted her husband, impatiently. "It only makes the cough worse. And so you came to look after me?"
"Yes; I was afraid that something was the matter by your staying away."