Falconer found her lying on a wretched bed. Still it was a bed;
and many in the same house had no bed to lie on. He had just come
from a room overhead where lived a widow with four children. All of
them lay on a floor whence issued at night, by many holes, awful
rats. The children could not sleep for horror. They did not mind
the little ones, they said, but when the big ones came, they were
awake all night.
'Well, Katey, how are you?'
'No better, thank God.'
She spoke as her father had taught her. Her face was worn and thin,
but hardly death-like. Only extremes met in it--the hopelessness
had turned through quietude into comfort. Her hopelessness affected
him more than her father's. But there was nothing he could do for
her.
There came a tap at the door.
'Come in,' said Falconer, involuntarily.
A lady in the dress of a Sister of Mercy entered with a large basket
on her arm. She started, and hesitated for a moment when she saw
him. He rose, thinking it better to go. She advanced to the
bedside. He turned at the door, and said,
'I won't say good-bye yet, Katey, for I'm going to have a chat with
your father, and if you will let me, I will look in again.'
As he turned he saw the lady kiss her on the forehead. At the sound
of his voice she started again, left the bedside and came towards
him. Whether he knew her by her face or her voice first, he could
not tell.
'Robert,' she said, holding out her hand.
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