Ring; ring; ring. Rather a louder peal this time, as if a little impatience now mingled with the reluctance. Flinging on a warm shawl, and putting her feet into her shoes, Jelly proceeded to the front-room--Mrs. Cumberland's chamber when she was at homo--threw up the window, and called to know who was there. A little man, stepping back from the door into the bright moonlight, looked up to answer--and Jelly recognized the form and voice of Ketler. "It's me," said he. "You!" interrupted Jelly, not allowing the man to continue. "What on earth do you want here at this hour?" "I came to tell you the news about poor Cissy. She's dead." "Couldn't it wait?" tartly returned Jelly, overlooking the sad nature of the tidings in her anger at having been disturbed. "Would it have run away, that you must come and knock folks up to tell it, as if you'd been the telegraph?" "It was my wife made me come," spoke Ketler, with much humility. "She's in a peck o' grief, Jelly, and nothing would do but I must come right off and tell you; she thought, mayhap, you'd not be gone to bed." "Not gone to bed at midnight!" retorted Jelly. "And there it is, striking: if you've any ears to hear. You must be a fool, Ketler." "Well, I'm sorry to have disturbed you," said the man, with a sigh. "I wouldn't have done it myself; but poor Susan was taking on so, I couldn't deny her. We was all so fond of the child; and--and----" Ketler broke down. The man had loved his child: and he was weak and faint with hunger. It a little appeased Jelly. "I suppose you don't expect me to dress myself and come off to Susan at this hour?" she exclaimed, her tone, however, not quite so sharp as it had been. "Law, bless you, no," answered Ketler. "What good would that do? It couldn't bring Cissy back to life again." "Ketler, it's just this--instead of being upset with grief, you and Susan might be thankful the child's taken out of the trouble of this world. She won't be crying for food where she's gone, and find none." The man's grief was renewed at the last suggestion. But Jelly had really meant it in the light of consolation. "She was your god-child, Jelly." "You needn't tell me that," answered Jelly. "Could I have saved her life at any trouble or cost, I would have done it. If I had a home of my own I'd have taken her to it, but I'm only in service, as you know. Ketler, it is the strike that has killed that child." Ketler was silent. "Cissy was a weakly child and required extra comforts; as long as you were in work she had them, but when that dropped off, of course the child suffered. And now she's gone. She is better off, Ketler." "Yes," assented the man as if he were heartbroken. "If it wasn't for the thought of the rest, I should wish it was me that was gone instead." "Well, give my love to Susan and say I'm sorry for it altogether, and I'll come down some time in the morning. And, look here, Ketler--what about the money for the burial? You've nothing towards it, I expect."