He bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and
from a little retail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights of
coal. Some money still remained--all destined for them, but he did
not yet know how best to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he had
instantly seen were necessary; for luxuries he would wait. Wilson's
eyes filled with tears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases.
He understood it all, and longed to be once more in work that he
might help in some of these material ways, without feeling that he
was using his son's money. But though "silver and gold he had
none," he gave heart-service and love--works of far more value. Nor
was John Barton behind in these. "The fever" was (as it usually is
in Manchester) of a low, putrid, typhoid kind; brought on by
miserable living, filthy neighbourhood, and great depression of mind
and body. It is virulent, malignant, and highly infectious. But
the poor are fatalists with regard to infection! and well for them
it is so, for in their crowded dwellings no invalid can be isolated.
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