“Will you help a poor woman in distress, kind gentlemen?” she said. “Oh, come, my good woman,” said Bertie, “your memory is a short one. Why, you made enough yesterday to keep the wolf from the door for some days.” The woman looked at him keenly, but not angrily. “I didn’t ask for money for myself,” she said; “it’s my child--my little girl,” and she drew the shawl a few inches from the child’s face. “What’s the matter with her?” asked Bertie, in quite a different voice. Faradeane leaned against the gate, and looked on with an absent air of preoccupation. “She’s ill, sir,” replied the gypsy. “She was took ill yesterday. I don’t know what ails her. It’s my only one, kind gentlemen, and----” She stopped and looked at Faradeane. “Ah! it’s hard to understand a mother’s feelings.” “I dare say,” said Bertie, gently. “But why do you keep her out in the open air? The day is chilly, and you earned plenty of money yesterday to find shelter for her.” The gypsy shook her head slowly. “That’s gone, sir,” she said, with that quiet resignation which women acquire, Heaven help them! “I see,” said Bertie. “Your husband--the man who was with you----” She nodded, and raised her hand to her lips with the action of drinking. “Yes, gentlemen, he’s my husband, and the money’s gone where it always goes. If he’d only left me enough to buy a blanket or a thick shawl for her; but----” She stopped and rocked the child, crooning to it soothingly. Bertie put his hand in his pocket, then uttered an exclamation of disappointment. “By Jove! I’ve left my purse in my other coat. Faradeane, lend me----” Faradeane straightened himself and came forward. “Let me look at the child,” he said, in his low, musical voice. The woman looked up at him for an instant with the mother’s searching glance; then, reading something in his eyes that reassured her, threw the shawl off the child’s face and turned it toward him. It was a poor, thin little mite, whose face should have been white, but was flushed and burning. Faradeane took it from her. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, gently, as she clung to it a little. “Are you a doctor, gentleman?” she asked, looking up at Faradeane, eagerly. “No, no,” said Bertie. “But you can rely on what he says. What is it, Faradeane?” he asked, in a lower voice. Faradeane looked at the child attentively. “Fever,” he said. “The child has been exposed to this charming English spring of ours. Poor mite!” The woman’s dark eyes grew moist, and her hands clasped together with a spasmodic action. “Is--is it going to die, gentleman?” she asked, huskily. “It’s--it’s the only one I’ve got left, and--and, bein’ a girl, I’ve got fond of it like,” she added, apologetically. “I hope it won’t die,” he said, gently, “but it is very bad. This thin shawl--wait a moment,” and he handed the child back to her. She pressed it to her bosom with a choking sob, and bent over it speechlessly.