"I think you had better have advice, Mrs Hardon," said the visitor, the Rev. Arthur Sterne, the calm, earnest, quiet-looking curate of the neighbouring church. Lucy Grey, now budding into womanhood, was seated upon the floor by the couch, with a little boy in her lap, and letting the hands of the child on her mother's arm stray amongst the glossy tresses of her hair. "Advice? What? doctor?" said Septimus, gazing in his wife's anxious face; "is Letty really ill, then?" and then in a bewildered way he began rubbing his hands together as if washing them in emptiness, and afterwards drying them upon nothing. "Let me send in a doctor," said Mr Sterne kindly, as he took his hat to leave; "there are symptoms of fever, I think. Don't let it get too firm a hold before you have advice." "Thank you, thank you; do send him, please," said Septimus helplessly. "But--" He was about to alter his request, for just then his hand came in contact with the light leather purse in his pocket, but the curate had hurriedly left the room. Then taking his step-child's place by the sofa the father parted the golden hair upon the sick girl's forehead, and anxiously questioned Mrs Septimus respecting the illness. As the night came on the little one grew wild and restless, and what the mother had taken to be but a slight childish ailment, began to assume a form that added anxiety where it was hardly needed. The doctor had been, and spoken Seriously, and the medicine he had sent had been administered; but the fever seemed to increase, for the child grew worse, starting from fitful sleeps, and calling for sister Lucy to take something away from her. Septimus looked weakly from face to face for comfort, and then wandered about the room, wringing his hands and trying to think this new trouble some horrible dream. And so days passed--days of trouble and anxiety--during which Mrs Septimus forgot her own ailments, and watched and nursed in turn with Lucy. The doctor had talked as so many doctors will talk, in an indefinite strain, which left the anxious parents in a state of doubt and bewilderment, though it never occurred to Septimus Hardon that so great an affliction could fall upon him, as that he should lose his little one. About a week after the seizure, Mrs Septimus was watching by the child, who, after partaking eagerly of some tea, had apparently dropped off to sleep. "Take little Tom down into the office," whispered Mrs Hardon, "perhaps she will sleep awhile if we keep her quiet."