“To get a patient admitted at the Consumption Hospital, is, you should be aware, no easy matter, until the building at Queen’s Elm is complete.  But I flatter myself I have influence.  I have subscribed a deal of money.  Possibly the person may be got in in time.  Who did you say he was?”

“Thomas Cliffe.  He married one of the servants here, Esther—­”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself about the name; I shouldn’t recollect it.  The housekeeper might.  Why didn’t his wife apply to the housekeeper?”

The careless question seemed hardly to expect an answer, and Elizabeth gave none.  She could not bear to make public Tom’s misery and Esther’s shame.

“And you say he is a Stowbury man?  That is certainly a claim.  I always feel bound, somewhat as a member of Parliament might be, to do my best for any one belonging to my native town.  So be satisfied, Mrs. Hand; consider the thing settled.”

And he was going away; but time being of such great moment, Elizabeth ventured to detain him till he had written the letter of recommendation, and found out what days the application for admission could be received.  He did it very patiently, and even took out his purse and laid a sovereign on the top of the letter.

“I suppose the man is poor; you can use this for his benefit.”

“There is no need, thank you, Sir,” said Elizabeth, putting it gently aside.  She could not bear that Tom should accept any body’s money but her own.

At her first spare moment she wrote him a long letter explaining what she had done, and appointing the next day but one, the earliest possible, for taking him out to Chelsea herself.  If he objected to the plan, he was to write and say so; but she urged him as strongly as she could not to let slip this opportunity of obtaining good nursing and first rate medical care.

Many times during the day the thought of Tom alone in his one room—­comfortable though it was, and though she had begged the landlady to see that he wanted nothing—­came across her with a sudden pang.  His face, feebly lifted up from the pillow, with its last affectionate smile, the sound of his cough as she stood listening outside on the stair head, haunted her all through that sunshiny June day; and, mingled with it, came ghostly visions of that other day in June—­her happy Whitsun holiday—­her first and her last.

No letter coming from Tom on the appointed morning, she left Master Henry in the charge of the house-maid, who was very fond of him—­as indeed he bade fair to be spoiled by the whole establishment at Russell Square—­and went down to Westminster.

There was a long day before her, so she took a minute’s breathing space on Westminster Bridge, and watched the great current of London life ebbing and flowing—­life on the river and life on the shore; every body so busy and active and bright.

“Poor Tom, poor Tom!” she sighed, and wondered whether his ruined life would ever come to any happy ending, except death.