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Amber gave her a glare, full of disgust and hatred. But she had already decided that when night came she would force the old woman out if she had to do it at the point of a knife. Now, it was only two o’clock, and time to prepare another light meal for Bruce. Spong wandered back into the parlour, uninterested in food for once, and Amber began to set his tray.

As she carried it into the bedroom she passed Spong who lay on a couch before the long range of windows, mumbling beneath her breath and shivering convulsively. She reached out a hand to her. “Mam—I’m sick. Please, mam—”

Amber went by her without a glance, her jaw muscles setting, and took the key from her apron to unlock the bedroom door. The old woman started to get up and in a sudden panic of terror Amber rattled the key, flung the door open and rushed inside, slamming it again and turning the lock swiftly. She heard Spong collapse back onto the couch, whining some unintelligible words.

Amber blew a sigh of relief, thoroughly scared, for she had heard the tales of those sick from plague who roamed the streets, grabbing others into their arms and kissing them. She looked over to find Bruce propped upon his elbow, watching her with a strange expression of puzzlement and suspicion.

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh. It’s nothing.” She gave him a quick smile and came forward with the tray. She did not want him to know that Spong was sick, for she was afraid that it would worry him, and he was not strong enough for worry or any other exhausting emotion. “Spong’s drunk again, and I thought she was going to come in here and trouble you.” She was setting down the dishes and now she gave a nervous little laugh. “Listen to her! She’s drunk as David’s sow!”

He did not say anything more, but Amber thought that he had guessed it was not drunkenness but the plague. She ate with him but neither of them talked very much or with any gaiety, and Amber was relieved when he fell asleep again. But she dared not go out and stayed there, occupied with changing his bandage and cleaning the room—her ears were constantly alert for sounds from the parlour, and again and again she tip-toed to the door to listen.

She could hear her moving restlessly about, groaning, calling for her, and at last, late in the afternoon, she heard a heavy thud and knew that she had fallen to the floor. By her cursing she was evidently struggling to get up again but could not do so. Amber felt discouraged and frightened and she watched Bruce constantly, but he was sleeping soundly.

What can I do? How can I get her out? she thought. Oh, damn her, the filthy old fustiluggs!

She stood looking out at a bright setting sun that lighted the trees with red and orange patches and struck a window-pane down the street so that it gave back a blinding reflection. Then, rather slowly, she began to be conscious of a strange new sound and for a few moments she listened curiously, wondering what it was and where it came from. She realized, finally, that it was coming from the other room. It was a sort of bubbling rattle. As she listened it stopped and then, just when she had begun to think her own imagination was playing tricks, it began again. It filled her with pure terror, for it was an evil eerie sound, but she was impelled almost against her will to cross the room and—very softly—turn the lock and open the door, just a crack, to look out.

Mrs. Spong lay on her back on the floor, arms and legs flung wide. Her mouth was open and a thick bloody mucus poured out of it, bubbling from her nose as she breathed, coming out in a gush with each collapsing rattle of her throat muscles. Amber stared, chill with horror, stiff and motionless. Then she closed the door again, more loudly than she had intended, and sank back against it. The sound evidently attracted Spong’s attention for Amber heard a choked, gurgling noise as though the old woman was trying to call her—and with a whimper of terror she rushed into the nursery, her hands over her ears, and banged the door.

It was several minutes before she could force herself to return to the bedroom. There she found that Bruce was awake. “I wondered where you were. Where’s Spong? Is she worse?”

The room had darkened and as yet she had lighted no candles, so that he could not see her face. She waited for a moment, listening, but as she heard no sound she decided that the nurse must be dead. “Spong’s gone,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned. “I sent her away—she went to a pest-house.” She picked up a candle. “I’ll light this from the kitchen-fire.”

In the semi-darkness of the parlour she could see the bulk of Spong’s body but she went by without stopping, lighted the candle, and then returned. Spong was dead.