There were some people in Bleaburn to whom the sign in heaven looked very differently. On the night when the people assembled in the street to question each other about it, Mary was at the Billiters’ house, where, but for her, all would have been blank despair. Mrs. Billiter lay muttering all night in the low delirium of the fever; and Mary could not do more for her than go to the side of her mattress now and then, to speak to her, and smooth her pillow, or put a cool hand on her forehead, while one of the dying children hung on the other shoulder. At last, the little fellow was evidently so near death that the slightest movement on her part might put out the little life. As he lay with his head on her shoulder, his bony arms hanging helpless, and his feet like those of a skeleton across her lap, she felt every painful breath through her whole frame. She happened to sit opposite the window; and the window, which commanded a part of the brow of the hollow, happened to be open. Wherever the Good Lady had been, the windows would open now; and, when closed, they were so clear that the sunshine and moonlight could pour in cheerfully. This September night was sultry and dry; and three fever patients in two little low rooms needed whatever fresh air could be had. There sat Mary, immoveable, with her eyes fixed on the brow from which she had seen more than one star come up, since she last left her seat. She now and then spoke cheerfully to the poor mutterer in the other room, to prevent her feeling lonely, or for the chance of bringing back her thoughts to real things: and then she had to soothe little Ned, lying on a bed of shavings in the corner, sore and fretful, and needing the help that she could not stir to give. His feeble cry would have upset any spirits but Mary’s; but her spirits were never known to be upset, though few women have gone through such ghastly scenes, or sustained such tension of anxiety. “I cannot come to you at this moment, Ned,” said she, “but I will soon,—very soon. Do you know why your brother is not crying? He is going to sleep,—for a long quiet sleep. Perhaps he will go to sleep more comfortably if you can stop crying. Do you think you can stop crying, Ned?” The wailing was at once a little less miserable, and by degrees it came to a stop as Mary spoke. “Do you know, your little brother will be quite well, when he wakes from that long sleep. It will be far away from here,—where daddy is.” “Let me go, too.” “I think you will go, Ned. If you do, you will not live here any more. You will live where daddy is gone.” “Will Dan Cobb tease me then? Dan does tease us so!” Mary had to learn who Dan Cobb was,—a little boy next door, who was not in the fever as yet. He was always wanting Ned’s top. Would he want Ned’s top in that place where they were all going to be well?