For some weeks Maria was prostrated by the shock. Mrs. Andrews did all she could for her, but as time went on the question of ways and means became a serious one. Andrews was not in full work that winter, and there were many little mouths to feed, and, moreover, the anticipated arrival of a successor to the “twin” would shortly incapacitate Mrs. Andrews from attending to her helpless charge. All poor old Maria’s household gods had perished in the flames; she had already for some years been in the receipt of outdoor relief from the parish, on which, together with the produce of her garden, and the eggs laid by her hens, she had hitherto contrived to live. But now, what was to be done? The cottage was burnt to the ground, and the landlord, though kind and tolerant with regard to certain arrears of rent, was not inclined to rebuild it; moreover, it would be dangerous for Maria in her enfeebled state to resume her former solitary life. Much anxious consultation on the part of friends and well-wishers resulted in the halting one day outside Mrs. Andrews’ door of a cab, from which descended a neat, bright-eyed little woman in the uniform of a hospital nurse. It was, indeed, no other than the district nurse from the town of Branston, who, at the request of the authorities, had undertaken to escort Maria to the Union. Mrs. Andrews met her on the doorstep. “I’ve got her ready,” she said, in an agitated whisper. “She’s dressed all but her bonnet and shawl, and they’re quite handy, but I haven’t had the heart to tell her yet. It do seem hard for a poor old body. I d’ ’low it’s cruel hard.” “You want me to tell her, in fact,” said the nurse. “Well, it all comes in the day’s work, I suppose, and we can’t keep the cab waiting.” She went into the kitchen, and sat down by the small shrunken figure in the elbow-chair. Unpleasant tasks had frequently fallen to Nurse Margaret’s lot during the course of her professional career: she had had to announce impending bereavement to many an anxious family; she had not infrequently given a truthful answer to those patients who, already in the death-throes, had asked if their end were near; but never yet had she been called upon to perform a duty so painful as that of making this honest, decent, gentle, little old woman realise that she was to end her days in the workhouse. She did realise it, though. Nurse Margaret saw the wrinkled face blanch, and the mouth quiver, and the eyes grow wide with horror and alarm; and then, just as she was preparing for an outburst of tears and protests, she saw, to her surprise, the poor old creature brace herself, and presently the answer came, given with a certain quiet dignity:— “Well, Miss, I’ll come. I don’t wish to be a burden to nobody. ’Twon’t be for long, very like.” Mrs. Andrews came out of her entrenchment behind the door, and tied on Maria’s bonnet and shawl, with many tears and inarticulate apologies.