A well-worn Bible lay on the table, with a
ragged volume of "Hiawatha" and "Bunyan's Holy War." There were no other
books. This form of poverty piteously appealed to him.
"By George!" he exclaimed, "that is sad. The man is book-poor. Ann must
have that library. I will ask him to use mine." As he stood still in
thought, he heard steps, and turned to meet Dr. McGregor.
"Come to see Grace, sir?" said the doctor.
"Yes, I came about a little business, but there seems to be no one in."
"Grace is in bed and pretty sick too."
"What is the matter?"
"Oh, had a baptism in the river--stood too long in the water and got
chilled. It has happened before. Come up and see him--he'll like it."
The Squire hesitated and then followed the doctor. "Who cares for him?"
he asked as they moved up the stairs.
"Oh, his son. Rather a dull lad, but not a bad fellow. He has no
servant--cooks for himself. Ever try it, Squire?"
"I--often. But what a life!"
The stout little clergyman lay on a carved four-post bedstead of old
mahogany, which seemed to hint of better days. The ragged patch-work
quilt over him told too of busy woman-hands long dead. The windows were
closed, the air was sick (as McGregor said later), and there was the
indescribable composite odour which only the sick chamber of poverty
knows.
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