It was on the tip of Miss Gregson's tongue to remark that no one had suggested such a thing, but she wisely refrained; she knew that it would be of no avail to advise further caution of any kind, or to remind Sheila that there were other rooms more suitable for this poor stranger. Miss Gregson and Sheila followed Walter and Elsie as they carried Meg upstairs and deposited her on the sofa. Sheila leant over the girl, fanning her. "Just about my age, Angel," she said, "and I have everything I want, and she nothing." The pity and emotion displayed on Sheila's face greatly pleased her old friend, who had never known her to be so touched before by another's sorrows. Meg took some little time to recover from her swoon, and when she at last opened her eyes she was too tired to speak, and was only conscious that she lay on a comfortable couch by the window, through which came the song of birds, and that a girl of about her own age was kneeling by her side. She wondered vaguely if this was dying. If so she was glad to die. When the doctor, for whom Sheila had sent, arrived, he informed her that the girl was half starved—and that a warm bath, food, and rest were what she was chiefly in need of. "Is this another of your hobbies, Miss Dennison?" he said as he left the room. "I have heard of the children. How did that go off?" "They only left this morning," said Sheila evasively. "I hope you do not hold the same view as Miss Gregson, and think I ought not to take this girl in without knowing more of her." Sheila looked at the doctor half reproachfully. "It is very charitable of you to harbour her," he said. "But you must remember that there are many frauds about. It would be a pity to be taken in yourself." "A worse pity to let her starve!" said the girl hotly. "Of course you must not let her starve. But there is moderation in all things, and there is a medium course surely. However, I have no doubt that this poor girl will reward you by her gratitude. She does not look like a fraud, and she would certainly have died if no one had taken pity on her." Sheila held out her hand impulsively to the doctor while a rich colour suffused her face. "There," she said, "you have already given me my reward. To think that my action has perhaps saved a girl from death! Do you really think that?" "I didn't mean that she would have died at once. But such privation must eventually end that way. Even if you are deceived in her," he added warmly, for the girl's enthusiasm had touched him, "you will know you have done the kindest thing you could." Sheila ran upstairs, two at a time, delighted. At last she had done something that might be considered worth doing. Her eyes were bright with excitement. And to increase her happiness the girl whom she had apparently rescued from death was sweet to look upon and most interesting.