‘O, sir, I’m sorry to say she’s not so well. She was light-headed last night, and her poor mar sat up, and looks as pale as a ghost to-day, and the doctor seemed more serious like. But as mother tells Mrs. Bertram, it’s only scarlatina; it isn’t as if it was scarlet fever, you know.’ The little door of communication between the shop and the staircase opened at this moment, and Jane Bertram’s pale face appeared—how pale and wan! He could not have thought one night’s suffering would have worked such a change. ‘She is worse,’ she said, looking at the girl with haggard eyes that hardly seemed to have sight in them. ‘For God’s sake run for the doctor.’ ‘She can’t be so bad as all that. Come, bear up, Mrs. Bertram, that’s a dear,’ answered the girl kindly. ‘You’re so nervous, and you’re not used to illness. I’ll run and fetch Mr. Vincent if you like, but I daresay there’s no need.’ She shuffled on her bonnet as she spoke. ‘I don’t know,’ Mrs. Bertram said helplessly; ‘I don’t know what I ought to do; she was never so ill before.’ She went up-stairs, Geoffrey following, emboldened by pity. He stood by the open door of the little bedroom—commonly furnished, but neat and spotless in its pure drapery of white dimity, its well-scrubbed floor, and freshly-papered wall. The sick child lay with her golden hair spread loosely on the pillow, her blue eyes bright with fever. The landlady sat by the bed, sharing the mother’s watch. Mrs. Bertram bent over the child, kissed her with fond passionate kisses, and murmured broken words of love, then turned towards the door, surprised to see the intruder. ‘You here!’ she exclaimed, seeing Geoffrey, but with no anger in the sorrowful face. ‘Yes, I want so much to be of use to you. Will you spare me two minutes, in here?’ he asked, pointing to the sitting-room, the door of which stood open. ‘The little girl is safe with our good friend.’ ‘Yes,’ the mother answered piteously. ‘I can do nothing for her. Only God can help us—only He who pitied the sinful woman in her agony.’ The words struck strangely on his ear, but he let them pass unnoticed as the wild cry of an almost despairing soul. What should she have to do with sin? she in whose countenance reigned purity and a proud innocence none could dare impeach.