“Let them stay where they are, whoever it be,” his mother mumbled, never shifting from her seat. The knock came again.
“Nay, mother, nay; it is too late to—”
He had said no more when the latch was lifted, and Rotha Stagg walked into the room.
“I've come to help to nurse you, if you please,” she said, addressing the sick man.
Garth looked steadily at her for a moment, every feature quivering. Shame, fear, horror—any sentiment but welcome—was written on his face. Then he straggled to twist his poor helpless body away; his head, at least, he turned from her to the wall.
“It wad look better of folk if they'd wait till they're axt,” muttered Mrs. Garth, with downcast eyes.
Rotha unpinned the shawls that had wrapped her from the cold, and threw them over a chair. She stirred the fire and made it burn brightly; there was no other light in the room. The counterpane, which had been dragged away in the restlessness of the sufferer, she spread afresh. Reaching over the bed, she raised the sick man's head tenderly on her arm while she beat out his pillow. Never once did he lift his eyes to hers.
Mrs. Garth still rocked herself in her seat. “Folks should wait till they're wanted,” she mumbled again; but the words broke down into a stifled sob.
Rotha lit a candle that stood at hand, went to the cupboard in the corner of the adjoining kitchen, and took out a jar of barley; then to the hearth and took up a saucepan. In two minutes she was boiling something on the fire.
Mrs. Garth was following every movement with watchful eyes.