"No, thank you, Mr. Wheels," she answers; "I'm in a hurry. How's your daughter to-night?" "Not so well, not so well," he says. "She's wandering a little, I think. The doctor was here in the afternoon, and I could tell by his face that he thought she was worse. And I have to give her her medicine directly she wakes." "I'm sorry she's not well. We've all got our trials, Mr. Wheels! My sister's little boy's down with the fever too. I'm going to take a run round to see how he is." "Not serious, I hope?" "I don't know," replies Mrs. Podmore gravely; "he seems to me to be sinking--but we're all in God Almighty's hands. One thinks of one's own, Mr. Wheels, at such times. Thank God, _our_ little one's upstairs, asleep, safe and well. But we feared we was going to lose her in the spring, and I never see a child struck down but I think of _her_." "I often think of little Polly, too," says the old man sympathisingly, "and of how near she was to death. Do you remember how Lily grieved?" "Remember it!" exclaims Mrs. Podmore, with grateful enthusiasm. "I shall remember it to my dying day. What I should have done without her I don't know. When Polly was a-laying there so quiet and solemn and white, and my heart was fit to break, Lily used to come and cheer me up. She was the only comfort I had, bless her kind heart and pretty face!" "Yes, yes," cries the old man eagerly; "and how Polly took to her after that! and how fond she was of my girl! But who could help being that--who could help being that?"