“It is the first time I have given the story any credence. I should not think you were troubled much with imagination?” “No; I distinctly saw lights in the west part of the house. To-morrow I shall walk round again and enquire further.” “Twenty-five years ago! By now he will be middle-aged--and I am growing old. I wonder if we should find one another greatly altered?” St Armand leant forward smiling. “Remember the Gods’ motto--‘Eternal Youth.’” CHAPTER VIII Next morning at breakfast Marigold said to Alice: “I did not sleep at all well last night; I heard a child coughing and then sobbing in the darkness. And when one ceased the other began--and I kept waiting and listening for the sounds, and at last I buried my head in the pillow and cried as well.” “In the dark, sounds like that are more distressing,” said Alice sympathetically. “It’s the woman next door--her child, I mean. She goes out washing and charring, and has to leave her little boy--he’s a cripple, and consumptive.” “How did you find out?” “Oh! she came in this morning early, and asked me would I go in and see to him once or twice in the day as he’s had an extra bad night, and the neighbour on the other side is bad with rheumatics?” “I wonder if she would mind me going to see him?” “She wouldn’t mind--but you are safest here. They’re saying now consumption’s infectious.” “Sure sign that to-morrow they’ll say it isn’t. I should like to go. I wonder if they eat when they’re consumptive?” “A bit now and then.” “What have we in the house?” “Cold chicken--a shoulder of lamb--pine-apple jelly, plum-cake--ras----” “I wonder if he would like plum-cake?” “More like the jelly for an invalid.” “But children are not like grown-up people, Alice. I love the plum-cake myself--that is why I never eat more than one slice. I am sure he would like the plum-cake.” “Well, there’d be no harm in trying him.” “Let me go and ask. He won’t know one of us from the other.” “It’s the infection I’m thinking of.” “I’m wearing my jewelled amulet. I’m going, so you needn’t say another word about it. If ever I begin to ask you _should_ I do a thing, you turn a regular tyrant. That’s how it is I have become so despotic.” So, when breakfast was over, Marigold set off with a slice of plum-cake on a fascinating china plate, that had a story on it almost as good as our own willow pattern. She tapped gently on the door and then walked in. The little kitchen within was tidy, though poverty-stricken. A round deal table, one or two straw-seated chairs, a deal dresser, a two-shelved plate-rail, a diminutive fireplace--little else except the occupant. There he sat beside the fire, the coal-bucket near at hand, and he in the comfortless arm-chair without a cushion. Marigold looked at him with an interest even unusual in her.