“If you don’t have his child’s blood clinging for life to your garments, you may be thankful.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, quickly.

“All that my words indicate.  Little Mary is very ill!”

“Well, what of it?”

“Much.  The doctor thinks her in great danger.  The cut on her head has thrown her into a violent fever, and she is delirious.  Oh, Simon! if you had heard what I heard to-night.”

“What?” was asked in a growling tone.

“She is out of her mind, as I said, and talks a great deal.  She talked about you.”

“Of me!  Well, what had she to say?”

“She said—­so pitifully—­’I wish Mr. Slade wouldn’t look so cross at me.  He never did when I went to the mill.  He doesn’t take me on his knee now, and stroke my hair.  Oh, dear!’ Poor child!  She was always so good.”

“Did she say that?” Slade seemed touched.

“Yes, and a great deal more.  Once she screamed out, ’Oh, don’t! don’t, Mr. Slade! don’t!  My head! my head!’ It made my very heart ache.  I can never forget her pale, frightened face, nor her cry of fear.  Simon—­if she should die!”

There was a long silence.

“If we were only back to the mill.”  It was Mrs. Slade’s voice.

“There, now!  I don’t want to hear that again,” quickly spoke out the landlord.  “I made a slave of myself long enough.”

“You had at least a clear conscience,” his wife answered.

“Do hush, will you?” Slade was now angry.  “One would think, by the way you talk sometimes, that I had broken every command of the Decalogue.”

“You will break hearts as well as commandments, if you keep on for a few years as you have begun—­and ruin souls as well as fortunes.”

Mrs. Slade spoke calmly, but with marked severity of tone.  Her husband answered with an oath, and then left the room, banging the door after him.  In the hush that followed I retired to my chamber, and lay for an hour awake, pondering on all I had just heard.  What a revelation was in that brief passage of words between the landlord and his excited companion!

NIGHT THE FOURTH.

Death of little Mary Morgan.

“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.”