"I dare say she is only weary with her journey," said a kind voice, and one of the ladies took my hand to lead me into the house. "Come with me, my child, and we will find some supper and a bed for these tired little bones." I am conscious of hearing the words, but they sounded far and strange, as talk does in the very early morning, when one is half-asleep. I heard also an exclamation of surprise and pity, and then my senses failed me. The next I knew, I found myself being undressed and put into bed, while my teeth chattered and every limb was shaking under the influence of a strong ague. From that time, for several weeks, my recollections are mostly a blank. I remember begging for water, water, and loathing the apple-tea and gruel they brought me instead. I remember seeing people about me and hearing voices, but it is all dim and dreamlike. At last, one day, I woke and saw Father Austin standing by my bed, with a lady so exactly like him, that if they had changed clothes no one would have known which was which. "Water!" I gasped. It was always my first word on waking. "Do you think I might give her a little?" asked the lady. "She does crave it so, poor little thing." "Yes, give her what she wants; it will make no difference," said the priest, sadly. He went away, and the lady brought me a small cup of cool, fresh water. I drained every drop and begged for more. "You shall have more by and by, if this does not hurt you," said the lady. "Be a good child." I dropped again into a doze. When I waked, I was alone, and the jug, from which my nurse had poured the water, stood on a little table near by. An overmastering desire took possession of me. I crept out of bed, and, steadying myself by the wall, I reached the jug, and though I could hardly lift it so as to get at its contents, I drained every drop. There must have been nearly a quart. Then getting back into bed, I fell asleep and slept soundly. I woke from a dream of my home before I went to Peckham Hall, and found that it was dark and the lady I had seen before was standing by me with a light in her hand. She bent down and put her hand on my forehead. "The saints be praised, here is a blessed change," said she. "The fever is wholly gone, and your skin is cool and moist. Do you feel better?" I made a motion of assent. Now that the fever had left me, I was as weak as an infant. "Well, well. Perhaps the water did you good, after all. Do you want more?" I nodded. She took up the jug, and seemed surprised to find it empty, but asked no questions, and gave it to an attendant outside, who presently returned, and I had another delightful drink, but I was not so thirsty as before. "Do you think you could eat something, my child?" asked my new friend.