Curiosity, however, is a weed which can flourish apace even in the pauper ward of a workhouse infirmary, and curiosity was very rife about Helen Morris. In appearance she was certainly above her present surroundings, but then in dialect, no poor woman there spoke worse; that is when she did speak, for she would scarcely speak at all. Those who wanted to draw her out, took pains, but the pains led to no results. In vain the strongest and best cups of tea were brought to her bedside by neighbours who hoped to be rewarded by a little confidence for these services; in vain the most tempting portions of the workhouse viands were piled upon her plate; in vain looks of sympathy were directed towards her. If Helen had a history, she did not choose any one there to know of it. All day long she lay on her narrow bed, suffering a good deal, but uncomplaining, uncommunicative. In the bed next to Helen's was a young woman of about her own age, dying of consumption. This young woman used to fret a great deal at the thought of leaving a tiny fair baby who was also in the workhouse. One day the news had to be broken to this poor young mother that her baby was dead. In reality death meant union for her, but she wept and moaned most bitterly and passionately over the little corpse. When she grew calm, Helen opened her lips once to address her. "Ef I was you, I'd draw it mild," she said. "When God H'almighty's makin' it hup to yer in this fashion, I'd draw it mild." "How?" asked the consumptive young woman in astonishment. "Ain't yer a-dying?" "Yes, I be." "And ain't the kid dead? and yer a-goin' to 'ave 'im h'all to yerself in God H'almighty's world. Ugh! the ongratitude of some folks." Here Helen closed her eyes with a gesture of disgust; but these remarks did not tend to make her a favourite. A few days after, the consumptive young woman died, and the bed next to Helen's was empty. She was lying one afternoon, her eyes as usual shut, her lips as usual compressed with some thought which surely was keeping the poor heart within very restless, when Robin, fast asleep, was laid on the empty bed by her side. He looked beautiful in his sleep, his fair cheeks flushed, his bright curls shading his handsome little face. "Bless him for a beauty, the darlint!" said an Irish woman, as she covered him up tenderly. When the Irish woman went away Helen turned on her side, opened her eyes slowly, and gazed at the sleeping boy. She had never noticed him before; when any workhouse child came in her way she invariably shut her eyes and compressed her lips. What the other women blamed her, and shrank most away from her for, was her dislike to children, for this is a sin no true woman will forgive.