Mrs. Bird did not go to bed that night, the most of which she spent by Joan’s side, leaving her now and again to rest herself awhile upon the sofa in the sitting-room. As she was in the act of lying down upon this sofa for the first time, her eye fell upon the written sheets of Joan’s unfinished letter. She took them up and glanced at them, but seeing from its opening words that the letter was of a strictly confidential character, she put it down and tried to go to sleep. The attempt, however, was not successful, for whenever Mrs. Bird closed her eyes she saw those passionate words, and a great desire seized her to learn to whom they were addressed, and whether or no the document threw any light upon the story that Joan had told her. Now, if Mrs. Bird had a weak point it was curiosity; and after many struggles of conscience, the end of it was, that in this instance temptation got the better of her. From time to time glancing guiltily over her shoulder, as though she feared to see the indignant writer rise from the bed where she lay in semi-torpor, she perused the sheets from beginning to end. “Well, I never did!” she said, as she finished them— “no, not in all my born days. To think of the poor girl being able to write like that: not but what it is mad enough, in all conscience, though there’s a kind of sense in the madness, and plenty of feeling too. I declare I could cry over it myself for sixpence, yes, that I could, with all this silly talk about a babe unborn. She seems to have thought that she is going to die, but I hope that isn’t true; it would be dreadful to have her die here, like the late accountant, let alone that we are all so fond of her. Well, I know her aunt’s name now, for it’s in the letter; and if things go bad I shall just take the liberty to write and tell her. Yes, and I’m by no means sure that I won’t write to this Mr. Graves too, just to harrow him up a bit and let him know what he has done. If he’s got the feelings of a man, he’ll marry her straight away after this—that is, if she’s left alive to marry him. Anyhow I’ll make bold to keep this for a while, until I know which way things are going.” And she placed the sheets in an envelope, which she hid in the bosom of her dress. Next morning the doctor came, as he had promised, and announced that Joan was worse, though he still declined to express any positive opinion as to the nature of her illness. Within another twenty-four hours, however, his doubts had vanished, and he declared it to be a severe case of “brain fever.” “I wish I had moved her to the hospital at once,” he said; “but it is too late for that now, so you will have to do the best you can with her here. A nurse must be got: she would soon wear you out; and what is more, I dare say she will take some holding before we have done with her.” “A nurse!” said Mrs. Bird, throwing up her hands, “how am I to afford all that expense?” “I don’t know; but can’t she afford it? Has she no friends?”