"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."