"No, indeed, mother, not for worlds. But if I can't see her," he added, "may I have her toys to play with?" The mother fetched them and laid them on the bed. "And now give me what was in the brown paper parcels, mother. The dear, dear, dainty clothes! Oh! didn't our baby look just lovely in his velvet frock? Please, mother, _may_ I see those pretty things once again?" Mrs. Home could not refuse. The baby's pelisse, Daisy's frock, and Harold's own hat were placed by his side. He took up the hat with a great sigh of admiration. It was of dark purple plush, with a plume of ostrich feathers. "May I put it on, mother?" asked the little lad. He did so, then asked for a glass to look at himself. "Ah?" he said, half crying, half frightened at his wasted pale little face under this load of finery, "I don't like it now. My pretty, pretty lady's hat is much too big for me now. I can't wear it. Oh! mother, wouldn't she be disappointed?" "She shan't be," said the mother, "for I will draw in the lining, and then it will fit you as well as possible." "But oh! mother, do be careful. I saw her put in a nice little bit of soft paper; I saw her put it under the lining my own self. You will crush that bit of paper if you aren't careful, mother." The mother did not much heed the little eager voice, she drew in a cord which ran round the lining, then again placed the hat on Harold's head. "Now it fits, darling," she said. "But I think the bit of paper is injured," persisted the boy. "How funny I should never have thought of it until now. I'll take it out, mother, and you can put it by with the other things." The little fingers poked under the lining and drew out something thin and neatly folded. "Look, look, mother!" he said excitedly; "there's writing. Read it, mother; read what she said." Mrs. Home read,-- "For Harold, with his lady's love." She turned the paper. There, staring her in the face, lay a fresh, crisp Bank of England note for fifty pounds. CHAPTER XXIV. "YOU KEPT A SECRET FROM ME." Hinton, when he went away that morning, was, as I have said, very undecided how best to act. He saw very clearly the fresh danger arising to Harold. Was he but rescued from the dangerous fever to fall a prey to lingering, or, perhaps, rapid consumption? Even his unprofessional eye saw the danger the boy was in; and the boy himself, lying awake during most of the weary hours of the night, had confided to his friend some thoughts which it seemed to Hinton could only come to such a child as the precursor of death. He now loved the boy for his own sake, and he was determined, even more determined than during the height of the fever, to do something to again save his life. After a brief pause for rapid thought, he determined to visit Dr. Watson. That busy man was at home and saw Hinton at once. "Little Home is no better," said Hinton, going straight, as his wont was, to the very heart of his subject.