Morgan's parlour.
"If you please, may I come in?" asked she.
Jenny Morgan was doing up the hieroglyphics which she called her
accounts; she answered sharp enough, but it was a permission to
enter, and Ruth was thankful for it.
"Will you tell me how he is? Do you think I may go back to him?"
"No, indeed, that you may not. Nest, who has made his room tidy
these many days, is not fit to go in now. Mrs. Bellingham has
brought her own maid, and the family nurse and Mr. Bellingham's
man; such a tribe of servants, and no end to packages; water-beds
coming by the carrier, and a doctor from London coming down
to-morrow, as if feather-beds and Mr. Jones was not good enough.
Why, she won't let a soul of us into the room; there's no chance
for you!"
Ruth sighed. "How is he?" she inquired, after a pause.
"How can I tell, indeed, when I am not allowed to go near him?
Mr. Jones said to-night was a turning-point; but I doubt it, for
it is four days since he was taken ill, and who ever heard of a
sick person taking a turn on an even number of days? It's alway
on the third, or the fifth, or seventh, or so on. He'll not turn
till to-morrow night, take my word for it, and their fine London
doctor will get all the credit, and honest Mr. Jones will be
thrown aside. I don't think he will get better myself,
though--Gelert does not howl for nothing. My patience what's the
matter with the girl?--Lord, child, you're never going to faint,
and be ill on my hands?" Her sharp voice recalled Ruth from the
sick unconsciousness that had been creeping over her as she
listened to the latter part of this speech.
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