A peremptory movement of the Squire’s hand stopped him, and they went in. In the downstairs room were half-a-dozen convalescents, pale, shadowy creatures, four of them under ten, sitting up in their little cots, each of them with a red flannel jacket drawn from Lady Helen’s stores, and enjoying the breakfast which a nurse in white cap and apron had just brought them. Upstairs in a room from which a lath-and-plaster partition had been removed, and which had been adapted, warmed and ventilated by various contrivances to which Robert and Meyrick had devoted their practical minds, were the ‘four anxious cases.’ One of them, a little creature of six, one of Sharland’s black-eyed children, was sitting up, supported by the nurse, and coughing, its little life away. As soon as he saw it, Robert’s step quickened. He forgot the Squire altogether. He came and stood by the bedside, rigidly still, for he could do nothing, but his whole soul absorbed in that horrible struggle for air. How often he had seen it now, and never without the same wild sense of revolt and protest! At last the hideous membrane was loosened, the child got relief and lay back white and corpselike, but with a pitiful momentary relaxation of the drawn lines on its little brow. Robert stooped and kissed the damp tiny hand. The child’s eyes remained shut, but the fingers made a feeble effort to close on his. ‘Mr. Elsmere,’ said the nurse, a motherly body, looking at him with friendly admonition, ‘if you don’t go home and rest you’ll be ill too, and I’d like to know who’ll be the better for that?’ ‘How many deaths?’ asked the Squire abruptly, touching Elsmere’s arm, and so reminding Robert of his existence. ‘Meyrick spoke of deaths.’ He stood near the door, but his eyes were fixed on the little bed, on the half-swooning child. ‘Seven,’ said Robert, turning upon him. ‘Five of diphtheria, two of fever. That little one will go, too.’ ‘Horrible!’ said the Squire under his breath, and then moved to the door. The two men went downstairs in perfect silence. Below, in the convalescent room, the children were capable of smiles, and of quick, coquettish beckonings to the Rector to come and make game with them as usual. But he could only kiss his hand to them and escape, for there was more to do. He took the Squire through all the remaining fever cases, and into several of the worst cottages--Milsom’s among them--and when it was all over they emerged into the lane again, near the bridge. There was still a crowd of children and women hanging about, watching eagerly for the Squire, whom many of them had never seen at all, and about whom various myths had gradually formed themselves in the country-side. The Squire walked away from them hurriedly, followed by Robert, and again they halted on the centre of the bridge. A horse led by a groom was being walked up and down on a flat piece of road just beyond.