“Ay, this be one of his bad days, sir. He have been that bad since Sunday, I haven’t known what to do with him.”
The voice of the sick man suddenly ceased, and he appeared to be listening.
“Who’s there?” he shrieked out, after a pause. “Jennie; blast you! who’s there?”
“He be raving mad, ma’am!” said Mrs. Mansfield, apologetically. “He don’t know what he is saying.”
“Jennie, you damned little varmint——”
“Hush, John, it be the parson!” his wife called up the staircase.
“To hell with the parson! Oh, what shall I do? Oh, who’ll tell me what to do?”
“I’ll go up to him, sir, and tell him you’re here. He be very bad to-day, poor soul! Will it please you to walk in, ma’am?”
The little woman went upstairs, and her entrance to the sick-room was greeted with a volley of foul curses screamed out in furious rage. Gradually, however, the access of passion was exhausted, and the man was again heard repeating his hopeless appeal for relief.
“How do they live?” asked Mrs. Haldane, glancing about the small but scrupulously clean room in which she stood. “Have they any grown-up children?”