"Yes, yes, I saw you took an uncommon interest in her and in the old man," said Mrs. Simmons. "I couldn't make out why at all. But don't you be afraid, my dear. I'll keep your tale to myself, and nobody shan't hear a word. It's well you're here to nurse Miss Daisy, for I doubt me the old man wouldn't have had a stranger." "I don't know as he counts me anything else," said Mary, "I told him who I was, but he didn't seem to remember. His memory is all of a fog, like. He's let me come because I didn't look for payment. It's as much as ever he'll do to let me have enough food to keep me going." "Well, if you're short, mind you come to me," said Mrs. Simmons heartily. "Dear! dear! What a man he is! What ever made him take first to such ways?" Mary Davis shook her head, unable to explain. She thought it was "nature." "Nature has a deal to answer for, there's no doubt," said Mrs. Simmons shrewdly. "But it don't explain everything." Then they stood looking at Daisy, and as they looked the pale eyelids were slowly lifted, and the dim eyes seemed to gaze at something. "Miss Daisy," said Mary Davis gently, "Miss Daisy, my dear,—don't you know me?" But there was no response. Daisy did not seem to hear the words. Mary Davis laid a hand on her forehead, with slight pressure, and there was a distressed faint moan. "That's the only sound she makes," said Mary sorrowfully. "And if I try to lift her, she's like a log." "It'll be an illness calling for patience, I shouldn't wonder," said Mrs. Simmons. "Now mind you, I'm ready to come in if I'm wanted,—and I'm not looking for money rewards, any more than you are yourself, Mrs. Davis. I'll come of an afternoon or a night, just as you please. I don't say I'm ready for morning work,—that's another matter. But don't you have scruples about asking me,—see you don't." CHAPTER VIII. GOLD. IT was growing late as the two women watched and talked by Daisy's bedside,—talked rather more perhaps than was quite wise, for one cannot always be sure how far a sick person is really unconscious. While they were thus busied, Isaac Meads retired from the parlour to his own bedroom, on the same floor, and at the back of the house. He did not go in on his way to ask about Daisy, for the idea of so doing never occurred to him. His mind was engrossed with other thoughts. Isaac Meads always retired to bed by nine o'clock at the latest, and he always expected Daisy to do the same. Supper and candles, and in winter firing also, were saved by this habit. He fastened carefully the bolt of the parlour window, and turned the big rusty key in the front door, forgetting or not knowing that Mrs. Simmons would have to unlock it again to pass out. Then, bearing the solitary candle which had been his companion, he went slowly with dragging footsteps to his own room, bolted himself in, and placed the light on the table,—an old green card-table standing in the centre.