Christmas week, and the absence of a juror who had gone out visiting, made another excuse for putting off the inquest to the next week. When that came, the coroner was ill. There seemed to be no end to the delays, and the public steam was getting up in consequence. As to Lease, he went about like a man who is looking for something that he has lost and cannot find. One day, when the ice lay in Crabb Lane, and I was taking the slides on my way through it to join Tod, who had gone rabbit-shooting, a little girl ran across my feet, and was knocked down. I fell too; and the child began to cry. Picking her up, I saw it was Polly Lease. "You little stupid! why did you run into my path like that?" "Please, sir, I didn't see you," she sobbed. "I was running after father. Mother saw him in the field yonder, and sent me to tell him we'd got a bit o' fire." Polly had grazed both her knees; they began to bleed just a little, and she nearly went into convulsions at sight of the blood. I carried her in. There was about a handful of fire in the grate. The mother sat on a low stool, close into it, nursing one of the children, and the rest sat on the floor. "I never saw such a child as this in all my life, Mrs. Lease. Because she has hurt her knees a bit, and sees a drop of blood, she's going to die of fright. Look here." Mrs. Lease put the boy down and took Polly, who was trembling all over with her deep low sobs. "It was always so, sir," said Mrs. Lease; "always since she was a baby. She is the timorest-natured child possible. We have tried everything; coaxing and scolding too; but we can't get her out of it. If she pricks her finger her face turns white." "I'd be more of a woman than cry at nothing, if I were you, Polly," said I, sitting on the window-ledge, while Mrs. Lease washed the knees; which were hardly damaged at all when they came to be examined. But Polly only clung to her mother, with her face hidden, and giving a deep sob now and then. "Look up, Polly. What's this!" I put it into her hand as I spoke; a bath bun that I had been carrying with me, in case I did not get home to luncheon. Polly looked round, and the sight dried the tears on her swollen face. You never saw such a change all in a moment, or such eager, glad little eyes as hers. "Divide it mother," said she. "Leave a bit for father." Two of them came flocking round like a couple of young wolves; the youngest couldn't get up, and the one Mrs. Lease had been nursing stayed on the floor where she put him. He had a sickly face, with great bright grey eyes, and hot, red lips. "What's the matter with him, Mrs. Lease?" "With little Tom, sir? I think it's a kind of fever. He never was strong; none of them are: and of course these bad times can but tell upon us." "Don't forget father, mother," said Polly. "Leave the biggest piece for father."