"By George!" he exclaimed, "that is sad. The man is book-poor. Ann must have that library. I will ask him to use mine." As he stood still in thought, he heard steps, and turned to meet Dr. McGregor.
"Come to see Grace, sir?" said the doctor.
"Yes, I came about a little business, but there seems to be no one in."
"Grace is in bed and pretty sick too."
"What is the matter?"
"Oh, had a baptism in the river—stood too long in the water and got chilled. It has happened before. Come up and see him—he'll like it."
The Squire hesitated and then followed the doctor. "Who cares for him?" he asked as they moved up the stairs.
"Oh, his son. Rather a dull lad, but not a bad fellow. He has no servant—cooks for himself. Ever try it, Squire?"
"I—often. But what a life!"
The stout little clergyman lay on a carved four-post bedstead of old mahogany, which seemed to hint of better days. The ragged patch-work quilt over him told too of busy woman-hands long dead. The windows were closed, the air was sick (as McGregor said later), and there was the indescribable composite odour which only the sick chamber of poverty knows. The boy, glad to escape, went out as they entered.