The upstair corridor had a window at each end. Queenie was never weary of pacing this. Sometimes the moonlight flooded it, and she trod in a perfect pathway of light; once or twice she stood looking out on the snowy house-tops, shining under the eerie light of stars. It seemed months since she had sat in the curious carved stall in the cathedral, since she had heard the Christmas anthems and Gounod's 'Bethlehem'; months since she had stood beside the old man's chair, pleading for his own flesh and blood. Caleb had spoken to her once or twice of Mr. Calcott's strange and alarming seizure. He had kept his room ever since, and was considered in a somewhat critical state, he believed. Queenie heard him vaguely; but no suspicion as to the cause of his illness entered her mind. The only thing that really roused her was when Emmie first feebly called her by her name. It was the night before the girls came back to school. Caleb had not yet paid his evening visit, and the sisters were alone. "Is that you, Queenie?" Emmie had said. "I thought it was mamma," and Queenie had fallen on her knees, and murmured her thanksgiving with floods of grateful tears. "I know Caleb too," she had said later on, when the old man came to her bedside; and something of the old quaint smile flitted over her face at the sight of her favorite. "Have I been ill, Caleb? Queenie has been crying dreadfully, and yet she says she is very happy." "Yes, my precious lamb, you have been ill; and Miss Queenie there has almost knocked herself up with nursing you; but now you are going to get well and strong," laying down the little skeleton hand that could not raise itself. "Hush, my pretty; hush, Miss Emmie, my dear," as a large tear stole down the thin face; "you must not fret now you are getting better." "I am so sorry for my Queen, my poor tired Queen," sobbed the child; but she was soon hushed and comforted by assurances that Queenie was only a little tired and would soon get rested. Emmie slept for hours after this; and before many days were over a faint but steady progress was perceptible. Cathy indeed was shocked at her appearance, and wondered if anything so thin and unsubstantial could really be Emmie. Emmie smiled at her, but was too weak to speak more than a word or two. One day, when she was well enough to be raised into a sitting posture and propped up with pillows, Caleb entered with a mysterious-looking basket, from whence proceeded a faint scratching sound; and this being opened, a small long-haired kitten, with a tiny perky face and bushy tail, crept mewing into Emmie's arms. The child's delight and astonishment at the sight of the long-coveted treasure were almost overpowering, and she hugged the creature to her without speaking. "Is it mine? is it really mine? will they let me keep it?" she gasped at length.