Bennet met her at the door, and he held up his finger for quietness as he made way for her to enter. He was sober now, and evidently in a very contrite mood. He knew it was not for him that Nancy McVeigh had come, and he expressed no surprise. "She be worse the night," he whispered, hoarsely. Nancy shot a glance at him, half-pitying, half-blaming, as she stepped into the dimly-lighted bedroom, where a wasted female form lay huddled, with a crying baby nestled close beside her. Two children in an adjoining bed peeped curiously from under the edge of a ragged blanket, and laughed outright when they saw who the visitor was.
"Go to sleep, dears," Nancy said, kindly, to hush their noisy intentions.
"It's you, Mistress McVeigh?" a weak voice asked from the sick-bed.
"It is, Mary, and how are ye?"
Mrs. Bennet was slow in answering, so her husband spoke for her, and his tones were tense with anxiety.
"She's not well at all, at all."
Nancy turned impatiently to Bennet and bade him light the kitchen fire.
"I've brought somethin' with me to make broth, and it's light food I'm sure that ye're wantin', Mary," she explained.
As soon as Bennet's back was turned, Nancy took off her wraps and drew a chair into the middle of the room.
"Give me the baby, Mary; yer arms must be weary holdin' it, and I will see if I can put it to sleep."