“I told the Royalls she was dying,” Dr. Cheyney said, “and to-day Diana was there. She sat with her an hour and tried to quiet her. Jean was raving and, at last, I ordered the girl away; she’d no business worrying in such a scene as that; then she told me she would take Sammy! She--Diana!” the old man flung out his free hand and beat the air, “that girl! I wanted to shake her. Yet, it’s like her; she’s got heart.” Caleb Trench, sitting back in his corner, summoned up a picture of the old man and Diana, and could not quite reconcile it with the Diana he knew. “You did not shake her,” he said; “what did you do?” “Sent her home,” said the doctor bluntly, “drat it! Do you think a girl of her age ought to start a foundling asylum for charity’s sake? I told her her father would have her ears boxed, and she laughed in my face. David Royall worships her, but, Lordy, not even David would tolerate that!” A low bough scraped the top of the carriage and they jogged on. Presently, old Henk stopped unwillingly and they got down, a little wet and stiff, and went silently into the house. It was stricken silent, too, except for the ticking of a clock in the kitchen, and that sounded to Caleb like a minute gun; it seemed to tick all through the house,--the three small rooms below, the rickety stairs and the attic above. There was a light in the kitchen, and there, on top of some old quilts in a packing box, lay Sammy asleep. In the room beyond the kitchen, in the middle of the great, old-fashioned four-poster, that was worn and scratched and without a valance, lay Jean Bartlett. Her fair hair streamed across the pillow, her thin arms lay extended on either side, her chin was up, she lay as if on a cross, and she was dead. From the far corner rose the woman whom the doctor had left to watch her. “She’s just gone, doctor,” she said laconically, without emotion. Dr. Cheyney shot a look at her from under his eyebrows, and went over to look at Jean. The light from the poor little lamp fell full on her thin small-featured face and showed it calm; she was as pretty as a child and quite happy looking. “Thank God!” said the doctor, “that’s over. Where’s Zeb?” “Up-stairs, drunk,” said the woman; “if it warn’t raining so hard I’d go.” The doctor looked over his spectacles. “Then you’ll take the child along,” he said gravely. “That I won’t!” said she, “I’ve children of my own. I won’t have none such as him.” “Oh, you won’t?” exclaimed the old man. “I thought you’d take him,” said she, reddening. “There are two women folks up at the house,” said the doctor dryly; “being a nameless child--out he goes!” “Well, I don’t care,” said the nurse fiercely, “I feel so myself; there’s the foundling asylum.” “He’ll fall on the stove here in the morning,” remarked the doctor. The woman shut her mouth. “Zeb’s drunk,” the old man added.