"Sometimes, towards evening. I think it must be from want of sleep," answered Mrs. Reardon. "It is best not to take any notice of what he says."
"Has he had any advice?"
The poor wife shook her head.
"What is it?" asked Matthew, quickly. "I don't want a doctor; I don't believe in them; I shall be better soon—quite well, I hope—well enough to come down to the office, at any rate. Or if—if I shouldn't be for a day or two longer, you won't let Mr. Heighington turn me off to get some one else in my place; you'll wait a bit for me, won't you?"
"Yes, yes," answered Marshall, soothingly; "to be sure we'll wait. But it will be of no use if you won't let any one mend you up a bit and set you all right again."
"What if I should be worn-out and past mending?" asked Matthew, in a low voice.
"I hope not, my friend, for their sakes," replied Marshall, glancing at his wife and children. "Otherwise, 'to depart and be with Christ is far better.'"
"It's very well for you to talk like that," said the sick man, with a weary sigh; "but I can't feel as you do."
"It is not to be expected," replied Marshall. "An old man like me, alone in the world. But I am sorry for you, Matthew; indeed I am."
"I believe it," said his companion. "You always spoke kindly to me; but he never did. Do you think he knew that I was going to be ill when he raised my wages?"