"He took her away at last, and she came to see us again and again as his bonny wife--God bless her! and then we went to see them many times, till they went away, over the seas, thousands of miles from here; but I often picture her pale fair face, and her gentle ways, and feel again the kiss she gave me when she left; and those thoughts seem to brighten up the present and make some of our dullest days a bit more cheery. And then we sit and think about the sorrows of this life, and the goodness by which they are assuaged; and wonder whether it may please God that we should see her face again--a face that seems to us like that of a dear child, for we should like to look upon it once again before we die." But the old people never set eyes upon her again for at the end of a couple of months the damp place and the cold paving had been too much for the old bookseller, and he had died; while from the wife of a policeman in charge of the next house I learned how prophetic had been my thoughts respecting them at our first meeting. I recalled the simple act that I had seen--how the poor old lady had laid her hand affectionately upon her husband's arm--just, too, as at our last meeting, when sick herself, she had listened quietly to her old companion's words, and smilingly upbraided him for being too generous in his trade. "They found her kneeling down, ma'am," said the policeman's wife, "just aside the bed, with her cheek upon his dead hand--she dead and cold too; and no wonder neither--the place was damp enough to kill a horse." CHAPTER TWENTY. KATE'S ORDEAL. I have mentioned Mary Sanders to you as the dear friend drawn to my side by a trifling act of kindness during her illness. Some were good enough to say that I risked my life in attending her; but I don't know: I fancy the risk of catching a complaint is as great to those who take endless care as to those who take scarcely any. Ninety-nine precautions are taken, and the hundredth window is left open through which the disease enters unawares. Be that as it may, I tended her, and we became great friends. I have in my memory a little incident in her life, which I will endeavour to repeat almost in her own words as she told me one evening as we sat together. It was a story of her childhood--of what she called her baby days--before she had to go out into the world. "`Ah, those were good old times,' she said, with a sigh, `when dear old Sally, our maid, used to scold us so. Then it used to be--and I remember one occasion well--the day Kate came down to us--There, you're banging that door again, Miss Mary. I declare to goodness you children would worrit the patience out of a saint.' "`Oh, never mind, Sally,' I said, panting, after a race to get into the house first--a race I had won, for Lil and Cissy were yards behind.