Mrs. Wincher stared amain at this interloper, and would fain have kept her on the outer side of the iron gate. ‘And pray, Dr. Davory, what may this good lady want?’ she asked, surveying the nurse and bundle with looks of withering scorn. ‘This good lady’s name is Milderson; she is an honest and trustworthy person, and she has come to nurse Miss Sivewright.’ ‘May I ask, Dr. Davory, by whose orders?’ ‘By mine, the young lady’s medical attendant and her future husband,’ answered Lucius. ‘This way, if you please, Milderson. I’ll talk to you presently, Mrs. Wincher.’ He passed that astonished female, who stood agape, staring after him with bewildered looks, and then raising her eyes aloft to outraged Heaven— ‘And me not thought good enough to nurse our missy!’ she ejaculated. ‘Me, that took her through the measles, and had her on my lap three blessed days and nights with the chicken-pox. I couldn’t have thought it of you, Dr. Davory. And a stranger brought into this house without by your leave nor with your leave! Who’s to be respounceable for the safety of the bricklebrack after this, I should like to know!’ Having propounded this question to the unresponsive sky, Mrs. Wincher uttered a loud groan, as if disappointed at receiving no answer, and then slowly dragged her weary way to the house, sliding one slippered foot after the other in deepest dejection. She walked up-stairs with the same slipshod step, and waited in the corridor outside Lucille’s room with folded arms and a countenance in which a blank stare had succeeded to the workings of indignation. This stony visage confronted Lucius when he emerged from the sick room, after about a quarter of an hour employed in giving directions to Mrs. Milderson. ‘Do you mean to say, Dr. Davory, that I’m not to nurse my young missy?’ asked Mrs. Wincher, stifled emotion trembling in every accent. ‘That is my intention, Mrs. Wincher,’ answered Lucius severely. ‘First and foremost, you are not an experienced nurse; and secondly, I cannot trust you.’ ‘Not experienced, after taking that blessed dear through the chicken-pox—which she had it worse than ever chicken-pox was knowed within the memory of the chemist round the corner, in Condick-street, where I got the gray powders as I gave her—and after walking about with her in the measles till I was ready to drop! Not to be trusted after five-and-twenty years’ faithful service! O, Dr. Davory, I couldn’t have thought it of you!’ ‘Five-and-twenty years’ service is a poor certificate if the service ends in robbery and attempted murder,’ answered Lucius quietly. ‘Attempted murder!’ echoed Mrs. Wincher, aghast. ‘Yes, that’s a terrible word, Mrs. Wincher, isn’t it? And this is the worst of all murders—domestic murder—the slow and secret work of the poisoner, whose stealthy hand introduces death into the medicine that should heal, the food that should nourish. Of all forms of assassination there can be none so vile as that.’