The handwriting was very uneven, as if penned in great excitement, and as Queenie looked at it there swept over her an undefinable apprehension of something, she could not tell what—a feeling that this call from Christine on such a night was no ordinary call, and the need no ordinary one. “I believe I am growing nervous myself, and that will never do,” she thought, as she felt a faintness stealing over her and a kind of chill creeping through her veins communicated, she believed, by the message she had received. Never before had Christine sent for her, but, on the contrary, had always tried to shield and spare her as much as possible from fatigue or exposure; but this “Come, you are needed,” was imperative, and, with trembling hands and a strange sinking from what she was to do, she donned her usual every-day attire, and with Pierre started for No. 40. It was a private hotel, which had remained free from infection until within a day or two, when the fever had suddenly broken out in its most malignant form. Two of the inmates had already died, one the wife of the proprietor, who with his guests had fled in dismay, leaving behind a young man who had come to the city the previous day, and who was now lying senseless in an upper chamber, where Christine had found him, burning with fever and raving with delirium. It was a very bad case, aggravated by nervous excitement and fatigue; but she had done for him what she could, and then had sent for Queenie, whom she met on the landing outside the sick-room, and to whom she explained why she had sent for her. “He is very sick,” she said, “and needs the closest watching, and I know of no one who would be as faithful as you, for I must be elsewhere to-night. This weather has increased the danger tenfold, and there is no telling where it will end.” Then she gave some minute directions with regard to the treatment of the patient who, she said, was sleeping, and must be allowed to sleep as long as possible. She seemed greatly excited as she talked, and there was a glitter in her eyes, and occasionally an incoherency in her manner of expressing herself, especially with regard to the sick man, which made Queenie look curiously at her, wondering if she were altogether in her right mind. When all had been said which was necessary to say Christine still stood irresolute, as it were, looking fixedly at Queenie; then, with a sudden, upward movement of her arms, she wound them around the young girl’s neck, and kissing her forehead, said: “God bless you, my child, and keep you, and all those whom you love, from harm.”