Mrs.
Heale was lying on the sofa, stricken.

The old man hanging over her, brandy bottle in hand.
"Put away that trash!" cried Tom; "you've had too much already." "Oh, Mr.Thurnall, she's dying, and I shall die too!" "You! you were all right this morning." "But I shall die; I know I shall, and go to hell!" "You'll go where you ought; and if you give way to this miserable cowardice, you'll go soon enough.

Walk out, sir! Make yourself of some use, and forget your fear! Leave Mrs.Heale to me." The wretched old man obeyed him, utterly cowed, and went out: but not to be of use: he had been hopelessly boozy from the first--half to fortify his body against infection, half to fortify his heart against conscience.

Tom had never reproached him for his share in the public folly.

Indeed, Tom had never reproached a single soul.