"Does seem such a thing," said Tim to himself, "to see any one suffering when you can't do anything to help them. There's her poor little cough getting worse and worse, and them fits coming on, and I can't help her a bit. It's dreadful, that it is. If one has to rub, or hold, or lift, or do something, it don't seem half so bad; but to stand and do nothing but look on is the worst itself. Never saw such a child as she is, though; and it makes me shiver when she gets looking in that far-off way of hers, as if she could see more than any one else. Takes her stuff without a word; but I'd sooner see her kick and cry out, and then have a good laugh after, when I talk rubbish about trimming the lamp. I don't know what it's a coming to--for she ain't like no other child--ain't like a child at all, that she ain't." It was not once that Tim would mutter in that fashion over his work, but often and often; and in spite of his words, he did know in his heart what was coming, though, stitching away there upon his board, early and late, he tried to shut his eyes to the ray of light that fell upon them--a ray of pale wondrous light, as from another world; light which shone with a cold lustre in upon his heart, to tell him that something must soon come to pass. For little Pine had of late grown quieter day by day; dull and heavy, too, at times, falling asleep in her chair, and more than once upon the bare floor, where Tim had found her, and gently raised her head to place beneath it the list-tied roll of newly-cut cloth for a pair of trousers, and then covered her with his coat. As the days lengthened, a hectic red settled in her little cheeks, and a cough came on to rack her chest; when, night after night, would Tim creep out of bed to give her lozenges and various infallible sweets which he had purchased to allay the irritating tickle that kept her awake hour after hour. "'Pon my word," Tim would say, "I don't think I should take more notice of that child if she was my very own; but somehow I can't help this here." And it was plain enough that Tim could not help "this here;" and, intent as he seemed upon his work by day, his thoughts were fixed upon the poor child, whom he watched hour after hour unnoticed by his domestic tyrant. "I don't like it," muttered Tim; "it's all rules of contrary. That there cough ought to make her pale and poorly, and it don't, for it makes her little cheeks red, and her eyes bright; and it ain't nat'ral for her to not eat nothing one time, and to eat savage another; and I'm 'most afraid to say anything to her, because she's so old and deep." "Am I going to die?" said the child one day, suddenly, as she left off work to gaze up earnestly in Tim's face. "Eh! what? Going to which?" exclaimed Tim, startled. "Am I going to die, and go away?" said the child again.