"See, here he is, safe and sound." "He always sleeps here. Ah! I cannot move. Fred, I did save you. I have taken care of you. I'm tired; but you're safe." Fred sat up, half awake, and kissed him. "Fred, tell muddie I took care of you." Then to the doctor, "Tell muddie I took care of Fred." Fred, frightened and sleepy, began to cry. When had he ever cried before and Frank failed to comfort him? Betty took him up in her arms, and the poor little thing was so worn out that he fell asleep again with the tears on his cheeks. "I can't take care of him any more," Frank said, after a vain effort to swallow what Dr. Wentworth offered him. "But God will; muddie says so." He stretched himself suddenly, gave a weak cry, and was gone. "Oh, doctor, don't tell me he's dead, the pretty little darling! Wait till I put this one back in bed." This she did, and came softly back. "Is he dead?" "Ay, dead. Starved, I think. Look, the little one has on two jackets; he has none. The comforter's tied round the young one, and it is plain that whatever food they have had, the young one has had the lion's share, too young to know that his brother was giving him his life. Well, Betty, you did all you could. I'll go now and get help to carry the poor little fellow to the Cygnet; there will have to be an inquest, and I suppose we shall find out who they are, and how they were lost, for lost they were, I suspect. These are no tramps to the manner born. This little fellow must go to the poorhouse until his people turn up. I declare, Betty, I'd give many a fat fee to have saved this boy." "Indeed, then, doctor, if I was their mother, I'd wish them together again in heaven sooner than have this baby in the poorhouse." The doctor carried out his arrangements, and little Frank's frail and worn body was laid on a bed in the clean little inn, while Fred lay warm and soft in Betty's arms. So the little wanderers both slept sound, one of them to wake no more to this world's "fitful fever." Next day there was an inquest, and Fred was to have been questioned as to the name borne by himself and his brother, and how they came to be wandering about in this forlorn way. But Fred was in no condition to be examined. When he awoke, he began calling for "Fwank," and searching for him, with tears and lamentations, looking everywhere for him, and calling incessantly. Betty, at last, in despair, told him that Frank was dead. She hardly expected the child to understand. But Frank's innocent talk about his unforgotten little sister had made Fred familiar with the idea of death to some extent, and, after a long stare of horror, the poor little fellow began to scream, and nothing that Betty could say or do seemed to make any difference. The doctor, busy about the inquest, was near at hand, and after some vain attempts to quiet the child, he had to give him a sleeping draught, which soon had the desired effect.