“Too late, Johnny,” he whispered.
The words startled me. “Mr. Duffham! No?”
He looked into my eyes, and nodded Yes. “The exposure to-day has been too much for him. He is going fast.”
And just at that moment Hannah Mitchel came in. I have often thought that the extreme poor, whose lives are but one vast hardship from the cradle to the grave, who have to struggle always, do not feel strong emotion. At any rate, they don’t show much. Hannah Mitchel knelt down, and looked quietly at the white, shrunken face.
“Dicky,” she said, putting his hair gently back from his brow; which now had a damp moisture on it. “What’s amiss, Dicky?”
He opened his eyes at the voice and feebly lifted one hand towards her. Mrs. Mitchel glanced round at the doctor’s face; and I think she read the truth there. She gathered his poor head into her arms, and let it rest on her bosom. Her old black shawl was on, her bonnet fell backwards and hung from her neck by the strings.
“Oh, Dicky! Dicky!”
He lay still, looking at her. She gave one sob and choked the rest down.
“Be he dying, sir?—ain’t there no hope?” she cried to Mr. Duffham, who was standing in the blaze of the fire. And the doctor just moved his head for answer.
There was a still hush in the kitchen. Her tears began to fall down her cheeks slowly and softly.