The dying girl seemed scarcely conscious of what was passing. Ideala looked round for something to revive her. There was not even a cup of water in the room. She knelt once more beside the bed, and raised her in her arms, and let her head rest on her shoulder. All the mother in her was throbbing with tenderness for this poor outcast. The girl drew a long deep sigh. "Could you take anything?" Ideala asked. "No, lady, not now. The thirst was awful awhile ago, and I cried and cried, although I knew no one would listen to me, or come if they heard. They'd rather we'd die when we get ill. It's a bad thing for the house." She could only speak in gasps. "And what have you had?" Ideala asked. "The scarlet fever, ma'am. There's an awful bad kind about, and I caught it. They all die that gets it." Ideala drew her closer, and laid her own cool cheek on her damp forehead. "Tell me why you wished to see me," she said. "You are so good," the girl answered--"I thought you'd better know--and get--away from--that low brute." Ideala understood, and would fain have stopped the story, but it seemed a relief to the girl to speak, and so she listened. It was the old story, the old story aggravated by every incident that could make it more repulsive--and her husband was the hero of it. "Shall I go to hell?" the girl asked, shrinking closer. "For these Christ died," Ideala murmured. The words flashed through her mind, and the meaning of them was new to her. Her heart was wrung for the desolate girl, dying alone in sin and sorrow without a creature to care for her--dying alone in the arms of a strange woman, with a policeman outside guarding her. Ideala cried in her heart with an exceeding bitter cry: "God do so to him, and more also." "Pray for me, lady." But Ideala could not pray with a curse on her lips--and, besides, the power to pray had been taken from her for many a weary day before that. She thought of the policeman, and called him in. "See, she is dying," she said, looking up at him helplessly; "and she has asked me to pray, and I can't. Will you?" And, quite simply and reverently, as if it had been part of his ordinary duty, he took off his helmet and knelt down, a great rough- looking man in a hideous dress, and prayed: "Dear Lord, forgive her!" They were the last words she heard. CHAPTER XX.