But all through the winter she had nursed her father night and day
through a horrible illness. Often, as Elizabeth had now discovered,
in the bitterest cold of the winter, she had had no bed but the
flagstones of the kitchen. Not a word of complaint--and a few
shillings for both of them to live upon!
At last the father died. And the night he died Mary staggered across
to the wretched cottage of a couple of old-age pensioners opposite.
'I must rest a bit,' she said, and sitting down in a chair by the
fire she fainted. Influenza had been on her for some days, and now
pneumonia had set in. The old people would not hear of her being
taken back to her deserted cottage. They gave up their own room to
her; they did everything for her their feeble strength allowed. But
the fierce disease beat down her small remaining strength.
Elizabeth, since the story came to her knowledge, had done her best
to help. But it was too late.
She went now to kneel at the beside of the dying woman. Mary's weary
eyes lifted, and she smiled faintly at the lady who had been kind to
her.
Pages:
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419