Fred confidingly ran beside her, her walk keeping him running, and though she saw that the child was weary and could scarcely do it, she did not slacken her pace. Into the warm cottage, she carried the boy, laying him on the floor before the fire, and putting a pillow under his head. She put her hand on his heart—poor little loving, brave heart. She thought it fluttered, but not more than that. She got some milk and warmed it, giving a cupful to Fred. Then she tried patiently to make Frank swallow a spoonful, but tried in vain. Fred, having finished his share, sat down beside his brother. "Fwank, isn't this nice and cosy? Put your arms wound me as you always do." Betty thought there was an effort to move, but even of that she was not sure. "Fwank never did so before. Always his arms wound me, and my head on him—so." And the little dark head was laid on the faithful breast which had been its pillow so often, and the bright eyes closed. Fred was asleep. Mrs. Giles, muttering to herself, "The pitifullest sight I ever saw," covered them with her warm shawl, and poked up the fire—recklessly for one of her frugal habits. Then she went out into the night again, going as fast as her feet could carry her up the long straggling street, and across the green. She was bound for the doctor's house, but outside the gate of the little avenue she met the doctor himself, setting out to take a last look at some patient. "Dr. Wentworth, be that you? Oh, sir, I'm glad I've met you! Come to my house; there's a boy there that I think is dying." "Whose boy, Betty? Your grandson?" "No; no one I know. There's two of them. I found them, or one of them found me. I'll tell you by-and-by; just now I want my breath for walking. Oh, doctor, 'tis the saddest sight!" Little more passed as they hurried to the cottage. Betty pulled off the shawl, and the doctor muttered, "Too late—for one of them." Having asked Betty a question or two as to what she had already done, he lifted Fred from his brother's side, and put him upon Betty's bed; he was warm now, and sleeping soundly. Then he heated Betty's shawl and his own coat, and wrapped the other boy up in them, and chafed the little sore and battered feet. "Betty, go to the Cygnet, and get me a little brandy. Say nothing of the children; I don't want all the village here." Betty hurried away, and was soon back again with the brandy. The doctor wetted the white lips with it, and rubbed the temples. Then he again felt for the beating of the heart, and while he was doing so the boy opened his eyes, and, looking at the two faces bent over him, said faintly— "Fred! Where is Fred?" "Safe and warm in my bed, child," answered Betty. "Ah!"—with a sigh of relief. "Safe and warm!" "Drink this, my boy," said Dr. Wentworth. "You shall tell us all about it by-and-by." "Where's Fred?" Frank again asked, in a hurried tone. Dr. Wentworth went and lifted the sleeping child gently, laying him beside the other.