Cyril went away touched by the mother’s intense love, deeply anxious for the safety of both mother and son in that infected house. If he had been rich enough he would have sent both off to some inland village, far from the smoke of cities and the fumes of factory chimneys. But he had drained his purse in giving a little help in cases where help was most bitterly needed. For one moment there flashed across his mind the thought of what he might have done to help these people, if Beatrix Harefield’s fortune had been his. What sunshine he could have carried into dark places--what comfort, relief, ease of mind, sanitary improvements--blessings of education and moral enlightenment--better dwellings, hopefulness everywhere. Money would have done all this, and the woman he loved would have given him her wealth freely for these things. And now the wealth was useless and idle, and he and the woman he loved were unlike unhappy. His purse was empty; he could give Emmanuel and his mother nothing but friendship and pity. He saw them every day, though the continual calls upon his time made every moment precious. Unhappily Mrs. Joyce had not the firmness of soul that can face a danger near at hand. She was nervous and full of fear. She had all manner of petty devices for keeping the enemy at bay. She, who had never been given to gossip, now lingered at the chandler’s shop, to talk to her neighbours, to hear the latest evil tidings, or to get the last specific which quackery had invented against the disease. Emmanuel’s life was made a burden to him by his mother’s care. She wanted him to take half a dozen different concoctions in a day. His affection yielded, while his common sense revolted. ‘I haven’t the least belief in these messes, but I’ll take anything to oblige you, mother,’ he said. By and by the widow wondered to see her son’s appetite begin to languish. ‘I think those concoctions you give me are the cause of it,’ he said, when his mother bewailed this alarming symptom. ‘They sicken my stomach.’ ‘Oh, Emmanuel, everybody knows that sarsaparilla is strengthening, and ought to give you an appetite; and then there’s the iron and the bark I got from the chemist’s for you.’ ‘Yes, and the dandelion tea, and the ground-ivy.’ ‘That was to sweeten your blood, Emmanuel.’ ‘Mother, there was nothing the matter with me, and if you want me to take preventives against cholera, why can’t you be contented with simple things? Mr. Culverhouse says that a tea-spoonful of common salt taken daily with one’s food is the best preventive ever discovered, and that wouldn’t make me turn against my dinner, as your ground-ivy and such like rubbish does.’ Hereupon the widow began to cry. ‘I’m so anxious about you, Emmanuel,’ she said.