enly, and sat looking at him strangely;
but Nan did not see. The machine whirred on, but it stopped suddenly as
Johnny cried out. Widgeon had slipped silently from his chair; his eyes
were open, but he did not seem to see her, and he was breathing heavily.
Nan ran into the passage and called an old neighbor, and the two
together, using all their strength, managed to get him to the bed.

"It's a stroke," the woman said. "Lord love you, what'll you do? He
can't stay here. He'd better be sent to 'ospital."

"I'll be 'anged first," said old Widgeon, who had opened his eyes
suddenly and looked at them both. "I was a bit queer, but I'm right
enough now. Who talks about 'ospitals?"

He tried to move and his face changed.

"I'm a bit queer yet," he said, "but it'll pass; it'll pass. Nan, you'll
not mind my being in your way for a night. There's money in me pocket.
Maybe there's another room to be 'ad."

"There's a bit of a one off me own that was me John's, an' him only gone
yesterday," said the woman eagerly; "an' a bed an' all, an' openin'
right off of this. The door's behind that press. It's one with this, an'
the two belongs together, an' for two an' six a week without, an' three
an' six with all that's in it, it's for anybody that wants it."

"I'll take it a week," said old Widgeon, "but I'll not want the use of
it more than this night. I'm a bit queer now, but it'll pass; it'll
pass."

The week went, but old Widgeon was still "a bit queer;" and the doctor,
who was at last called in, said that he was likely to remain so. One
side was paralyzed. It might lessen, but would never recover entirely.
He would have to be looked out for. This was his daughter? She must
understand that he needed care, and would not be able to work any more.

Old Widgeon heard him in silence, and then turned his face to the wall,
and for hours made no sign. When he spoke at last, it was in his usual
tone.

"I thought to end my days in the free air," he said, "but that ain't to
be. And I'm thinking the stroke's come to do you a good turn, Nan.
There's the donkey and the barrow, and everybody knowing it as well as
they know me. I'll send you to my man in Covent Garden. He's a fair 'un.
He don't cheat. He'll do well by you, an' you shall drive the barrow and
see what you make of it. We'll be partners, Nan. You look out for me a
bit, an' I'll teach you the business and 'ave an heye to Johnny. What do
you say? Will you try it? It'll break me 'a