He
don't need any outside things to put him up."
"I am sorry he is so much worse," remarked Arthur.
"So am I," said Mrs. Jenkins, tartly. "I have been doing all I could
for him from the first, and it has been like working against hope. If
care could have cured him, or money could have cured him, he'd be well
now. I have a trifle of savings in the bank, young Mr. Channing, and I
have not spared them. If they had ordered him medicine at a guinea a
bottle, I'd have had it for him. If they said he must have wine, or
delicacies brought from the other ends of the earth, they should have
been brought. Jenkins isn't good for much, in point of spirit, as all
the world knows; but he's my husband, and I have strove to do my duty
by him. Now, if you want to go up, you can go," added she, after an
imperceptible pause. "There's a light on the stairs, and you know his
room. I'll take the opportunity to give an eye to the kitchen; I don't
care to leave him by himself now. Finely it's going on, I know!"
Mrs. Jenkins whisked down the kitchen stairs, and Arthur proceeded up.
Jenkins was lying in bed, his head raised by pillows. Whatever may have
been Mrs. Jenkins's faults of manner, her efficiency as a nurse and
manager could not be called into question. A bright fire burnt in the
well-ventilated though small room, the bed was snowy white, the
apartment altogether thoroughly comfortable. But--Jenkins!
Fully occupied with his work for Mr.
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