I think it has been mentioned that the house next door to the Quales', detached from it however, was inhabited by two families: the lower part by Mr. Samuel Shuck, his wife, and children; the upper and best part by the Baxendales. No two sets of people could be more dissimilar; the one being as respectable as the other was disreputable. John Baxendale's wife was an invalid; she had been so, on and off, for a long while. There was an only daughter, and she and her mother held themselves very much aloof from the general society of Daffodil's Delight. On the morning following the day spoken of in the last chapter as distinguished by the advent of Miss Gwinn in London, Mrs. Baxendale found herself considerably worse than usual. Mr. Rice, the apothecary, who was the general attendant in Daffodil's Delight, and lived at its corner, had given her medicine, and told her to 'eat well and get up her strength.' But, somehow, the strength and the appetite did not come; on the contrary, she got weaker and weaker. She was in very bad spirits this morning, was quite unable to get up, and cried for some time in silence. 'Mother, dear,' said Mary Baxendale, going into her room, 'you'll have the doctor gone out, I fear.' 'Oh, Mary! I cannot get up--I cannot go,' was the answer, delivered with a burst of sobbing sorrow. 'I shall never rise from my bed again.' The words fell on the daughter with a terrible shock. Her fears in regard to her mother's health had long been excited, but this seemed like a confirmation of a result she had never dared openly to face. She was not a very capable sort of girl--the reverse of what is called strong-minded; but the instinct imparted by all true affection warned her to make light of her mother's words. 'Nay, mother, it's not so bad as that,' she said, checking her tears. 'You'll get up again fast enough. You are feeling low, maybe, this morning.' 'Child, I am too weak to get up--too ill. I don't think I shall ever be about again.' Mary sat down in a sort of helpless perplexity. 'What is to be done?' she cried. Mrs. Baxendale asked herself the same question as she lay. Finding herself no better under Mr. Rice's treatment, she had at length determined to do what she ought to have done at first--consult Dr. Bevary. From half-past eight to ten, three mornings in the week, Dr. Bevary gave advice gratis; and Mrs. Baxendale was on this one to have gone to him--rather a formidable visit, as it seemed to her, and perhaps the very thought of it had helped to make her worse. 'What is to be done?' repeated Mary. 'Could you not wait upon him, child, and describe my symptoms?' suggested the sick woman, after weighing the dilemma in her mind. 'It might do as well. Perhaps he can write for me.' 'Oh, mother, I don't like to go!' exclaimed Mary, in the impulse of the moment. 'But, my dear, what else is to be done?' urged Mrs. Baxendale. 'We can't ask a great gentleman like that to come to me.'