‘I could like to see Myles a bit,’ said Edmund at last; ‘I ne’er see him now, hardly. He’s quite different from what he was.’ ‘He’s not happy,’ said Mary. ‘I don’t rightly know what ails him, but it’s summat very bad, I’m sure.’ ‘Oh, he doesn’t like bein’ out o’ work. No more should I, if I was him. He’s ne’er been used to such pinchin’ work as this. They keep him a long time at yon shop.’ ‘Ay, they do. Harry Ashworth said he’d come and sit wi’ thee to-neet, Ned. Would thou like it?’ Edmund assented, with a look of pleasure, and there was silence, while the afternoon wore on, and at last Mary’s head began to droop. She was weary with sorrow, with working, and with watching. The atmosphere of the room was close and heavy, although Mary had conscientiously tried to follow out the doctor’s directions about keeping it ventilated. She could not keep her eyes open, but slept in her chair until Edmund’s feeble touch on her arm awoke her, and she started up. ‘Eh, what is it, lad?’ ‘I could so like summat to drink, Molly,’ said he, gaspingly. ‘And I think there’s summat not reet wi’ Myles. I heard him come in, and sit quite still for a bit, and now he’s gone out again, without coming up here, or waitin’ for his tea, or anything.’ Thoroughly awake, Mary hurried downstairs, and found emptiness and solitude. She could see that Myles had been in. She could see the chair that he had drawn up to the table and pushed away again, and she wondered, and was uneasy at his going out thus, without word or message. The kitchen, too, felt close. She drew up the window, and set the back door open to let some air in. Then she roused the fire, and set the gently singing kettle upon it, and brought out the tea-things. She prepared some tea for Edmund, and took it upstairs to him. He had said he was very thirsty, and he took the cup eagerly, and put his lips to it, then put it down again. ‘I feel very faint, Mary; I can’t take that. I mun have a little--bran----’ He had fainted, and it was some time before she succeeded in restoring him to consciousness. ‘Eh, I wish Myles was here; I wish Harry would come,’ she kept murmuring to herself, looking with anguish upon the poor worn face, which had now the stamp of the approaching end set upon it in unmistakable characters. At last a knock at the outer door informed her that Harry Ashworth had come. She ran downstairs and let him in, drawing him into the kitchen; and when they were there, sat down upon her rocking-chair, and began to cry heartily. ‘Why, Mary, what ails thee, lass?’ said Harry, taking her hand. ‘Myles is gone out--I don’t know where, and yon poor lad upstairs hasn’t so much longer to be here,’ said Mary, looking at him with her tearful eyes. ‘Thou munnot leave me yet awhile, Harry.’