"Where are you going, Ann?" It was the landlord's voice. Time—a little after dark.
"I'm going over to see Mrs. Morgan," answered his wife.
"What for?"
"I wish to go," was replied.
"Well, I don't wish you to go," said Slade, in a very decided way.
"I can't help that, Simon. Mary, I'm told, is dying, and Joe is in a dreadful way. I'm needed there—and so are you, as to that matter. There was a time when, if word came to you that Morgan or his family were in trouble—"
"Do hush, will you!" exclaimed the landlord, angrily. "I won't be preached to in this way any longer."
"Oh, well; then don't interfere with my movements, Simon; that's all I have to say. I'm needed over there, as I just said, and I'm going."
There were considerable odds against him, and Slade, perceiving this, turned off, muttering something that his wife did not hear, and she went on her way. A hurried walk brought her to the wretched home of the poor drunkard, whose wife met her at the door.
"How is Mary?" was the visitor's earnest inquiry.