It was Kittie B—— who had rung the bell. She was lying in bed, her face as white as her pillow, with a tiny red-faced infant nestling beside her. “May I have a drink of water?” she whispered, with a faint smile. “I guess I am feverish—I’m awful thirsty.” “Certainly you shall have it, dear,” was Marion’s prompt answer. Then it suddenly occurred to her that she had no right to promise anything. “I’ll have to ask Miss Williams first, though, Kittie,” she said, quietly; “but I guess there is no doubt but what you can have the water.” It was only a minute before Marion returned with the water, but the request had brought Miss Williams promptly to the bedside. In a moment the trained nurse was feeling Kittie’s pulse. In another minute the temperature thermometer was out, and it was discovered that Kittie had a fever. “The maternity ward is not the place for fevers,” said Miss Williams to Marion when they were out of hearing of the patient. “Put the screen around Kittie’s bed and keep her as quiet as possible. If the baby annoys her or she annoys the baby, take it out and put it in the crib beside the bed. I will look at her again in fifteen minutes.” Marion went back to the bed and found Kittie fidgeting. There was a look in her face that frightened Marion somewhat. She took the baby up and laid it in the crib, then turned to soothe Kittie with a smile and a few encouraging words. The flush of fever was rising to the sick girl’s pale face now, so that even Marion’s untrained eye could observe and study the symptoms. She bathed her brow and moistened her lips, but the fire in the girl’s veins seemed to burn hotter and hotter. An hour later and Miss Williams had called the house physician to the bedside. Kittie was moaning softly and turning her head from side to side. “It’s a pity we did not know more about her when she came,” said Dr. Hall as he turned away. “The girl is in a very dangerous condition.” CHAPTER XI. SOME SHOCKING INCIDENTS. The next two days were busy ones for Marion, for she was almost constantly at the bedside of poor, delirious Kittie. As the girl tossed on her pillow she talked incessantly, so that, bit by bit, Marion learned her sad history, finding that, like herself, the child had been born and bred in the country, but had run away from her home only to find treachery and disgrace in a conscienceless city. The names of “father” and “mother” were constantly on her lips. Then there was another name which she tried to speak, but which seemed always to be choked back by a flood of agony or a torrent of bitter, ill-timed denunciations. Marion guessed that this name would have meant a revelation. It was doubtless the name of poor Kittie’s betrayer, which, for some reason or other, she could never utter. A sudden dislike to her own child was the next development of the fever. When she saw its tiny face she screamed and shrieked with rage. It was necessary to remove it from her sight entirely.