So Marigold passed through the first great fire--the first passion of unrequited love--and came out partly purified. At last there came a day when Timothy could no longer dress and come downstairs. The shadow of death was gathering round, cruelly, slowly--some weeks yet, no doubt, before the lingering end. For the first time in Marigold’s presence there, the doctor came upstairs, and she heard his step upon the steep wooden stairs with more than usual beating of her heart. As he entered the door, their eyes met. He was looking in the best of spirits, yet she had expected to find him sad. “Timothy is too tired to get up to-day,” she said gently. “And some one else looks tired too,” he answered, the first attention or kindness he had in any way bestowed upon her. Who can blame Marigold if, from the pallor of waiting and watching, her cheeks flushed a rosy red, or if her eyes having once looked up to his, should suddenly sink to the ground again, and the deep colour die away, leaving her deathly white? And then he sat down on the low bed by the cripple--and she knew instinctively that he had felt annoyance at her confusion. Timothy was too weak and tired that day to sit up at all. He held the doctor’s hand very tightly in his hot fingers, and looked up at him with big, pathetic eyes. Suddenly he said: “Dr Quack, when I go away, will you get another little boy?” “Why, no,” he answered; “you’re not going away. You’re coming to live with me, Timothy--coming to live with me.” The big eyes were still fastened on him. “But I’m dying, ain’t I?” “No. You’re living. That is why I come to see you so often. If you were dying, I should stay away.” “You’re sure I’m living?” “Certain.” “Even when I feel bad?” “You won’t feel bad much longer, Timothy. Some day now soon you’ll have a big turn for the better. Then I’ll come and take you away.” “And Miss Rags? Has she to come as well?” “No. I think she’ll stay here.” “But you said she was tired too. I think I should like us all three to be together.” “We’ll see about her then.” “Dr Quack, have you heard Miss Rags sing?” “No.” He turned his head to her side of the bed. “Sing, please. Dr Quack’s never heard you.” But Marigold could not even speak, and the doctor came to her assistance. “Now I think of it, I have heard her sing, Timothy. I remember she has a very pretty voice.” “It’s lovely. Dr Quack, you know my best queen, don’t you?” “Yes. What of her, little one?” Marigold had never heard him speak so before. His voice was so soft it scarcely rose above a whisper, and he bent nearer the little figure on the bed. “Well,” continued the child, a certain excitement in his manner, “Miss Rags is just like her. She grows more like her every day.” “I think you’re mistaken, Timothy.” He had never spoken so coldly to the invalid before, and he moved back stiffly.