well and strong again as soon as he could
shake this cold that had settled upon him. Nancy was a meddlesome old
woman. He had told her so not more than an hour ago and had sent her off
about her business. He had been harsh to her and rude, and after all she
was old and had probably meant to do him a kindness. But, then, he was
not sorry; she'd not come bothering him any more now with her dismal
croakings of death and eternity. Death? He defied it. Eternity? Time
enough to think of that.

He opened his eyes and they rested upon the chair which Nancy had
occupied one hour ago, which she had occupied so frequently during the
past few months. She had been almost a daily visitor since he and Maggie
had been living in these wretched lodgings in "Nancy's Alley," as it was
called. Evidently, the old woman seemed to think the entire street was
her personal property and that she was responsible for the welfare of
all the dwellers thereon. Well, he guessed he had taught her not to come
meddling in his affairs. He hoped he had anyway. Dying? The idea of such
a thing; how dared she tell him he was dying when everyone else fed him
with the hope that he would be better to-morrow, next week, next month.
Ah! yes, but to-morrow never came; or rather, when it did come, it was
no longer to-morrow with its promise of renewed health. It was to-day,
with the same disappointment, the same pains, the same racking cough,
which he had endured on so many other to-days that had come and gone
before it.

Watching the chair she had so lately occupied, he could see once more
the figure of Nancy, her bright eyes and cheery smile, and hear the
nimble tongue which chattered so merrily or soothed so gently according
to the needs of her listener. He could see the little, stooped figure in
its ragged gown, the work-worn hands, the smooth, grey hair. He would
miss her visits; yes, indeed, he would miss them sorely. But what right
had she to go talking to him of death? Still, she was old, she had been
kind to him, and he had driven her away in anger. He had called her a
meddlesome busybody who went about poking and prying into other people's
affairs and had ordered her to leave the house and never enter it again.

"Pokin' an' pryin' is it?" she had answered quietly as she made her way
towards the door. He remembered now how difficult it had been for her to
walk even on the level floor; what a task it must have been for her to
climb those three long flights