“Then do you blame those who hoard up money?” asked the old man.
“Yes, indeed I do. I think they are wicked, very wicked, and are not making a good use of the talents committed to them. They are just as wicked as those who throw it away or spend it badly.”
“You are a severe censor, Miss Mary,” said the old man. “But you are right, very right.” He placed his hand on his brow.
Mary took her leave, feeling more drawn towards Mr Shank than she had ever before been, he seemed so softened and so sad, and very much weaker than he had before appeared.
Mary told her aunt.
“He suffers from want of food,” observed Miss Sally. “You shall go again to-morrow and take him another pudding, and say that I will send one for him, if he wishes it, every day.”
Mary reached Mr Shank’s door. She heard him feebly approaching to withdraw the bolts; as soon as he had done so, he tottered back, panting, to his seat.
“I am glad you have come, Mary, or I might have been found stiff and cold on my bed. I am very ill, I fear, for I have never felt before as I do now,” he said, in so low and trembling a voice that Mary had to draw closer to hear him.
She begged him to eat the food she had brought, hoping that it might restore his strength. He followed her advice, lifting the spoon slowly to his mouth.
After he had finished the food he appeared somewhat stronger.