“Tell him he may have my top. And tell him I hope he won’t have the fever. I’m sure I don’t like it at all. I wish you would take me up, and let me be on your knee.” Mary could not refuse it, though it was soon to be going over again the scene just closed. Poor Ned was only too light, as to weight; but he was so wasted and sore that it was not easy to find a position for him. For a few minutes he was interested by the comet, which he was easily led to regard as a beautiful sight, and then he begged to be laid down again. The sun was just up when Mary heard the tap at the door below, which came every morning at sunrise. She put her head out of the window, and said softly that she was coming,—would be down in two minutes. She laid poor Ned beside his brother, and covered him with the same shawl; drew off the old sheets and coverlid from the bed of shavings, bundled them up with such towels as were in the room, and put them out of the window, Warrender being below, ready to receive them. She did not venture to let the poor mother see them, delirious as she was. Softly did Mary tread on the floor, and go down the creaking stair. When she reached the street she drew in, with a deep sigh, the morning air. “The poor children’s bedding,” she said to Warrender. “They are gone?” he inquired. “What, both?” “One just before midnight. The other half-an-hour ago. And their mother will follow soon.” “The Lord have mercy upon us,” said Warrender, solemnly. “I think it is mercy to take a family thus together,” replied Mary. “But I think of poor Aunty. If I could find any one to sit here for half-an-hour, I would go to her, and indeed, I much wish it.” “There is a poor creature would be glad enough to come, ma’am, if she thought you would countenance it. A few words will tell you the case. She is living with Simpson, the baker’s man, without being his wife. Widow Johnson was very stern with her, and with her daughter, Billiter, for being neighbourly with the poor girl—though people do say that Simpson deceived her cruelly. I am sure, if I might fetch Sally, she would come, and be thankful; and——” “O! ask her to come and help me. If she has done wrong, that is the more reason why she should do what good she can. How is Ann?” “Pretty well. Rather worn, as we must all expect to be. She never stood so many hours at the wash-tub, any one day, as she does now every day: but then, as she says, there never was so much reason.” “And you, yourself?”