"There is twelve o'clock--give me my drops again, Lizzie," he remarked,
faintly. At the sound of his voice Lizzie emerged from behind the curtains,
and essayed to pour into a glass the proper quantity of medicine. She was
twice obliged to pour back into the phial what she had just emptied forth,
as the trembling of her hands caused her each time to drop too much; at
last, having succeeded in getting the exact number of drops, she handed him
the glass, the contents of which he eagerly drank.
"There!" said he, "thank you; now, perhaps, I may sleep. I have not slept
for two nights--such has been my anxiety about that man; nor you either, my
child--I have kept you awake also. You can sleep, though, without drops.
To-morrow, when you are prepared to start, wake me, if I am asleep, and let
me speak to you before you go. Remember, Lizzie, frighten him if you can!
Tell him, I am ill myself--that I can't survive this continued worriment
and annoyance. Tell him, moreover, I am not made of gold, and will not be
always giving. I don't believe he is sick--dying--do you?" he asked,
looking into her face, as though he did not anticipate an affirmative
answer.
"No, father, I don't think he is really ill; I imagine it is another
subterfuge to extract money.
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