"All that my words indicate. Little Mary is very ill!"
"Well, what of it."
"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,
