"I beg you will now leave the room, and lie down. And do not feel obliged to see me when I visit the child. That annoyance, at least, you should spare yourself." "No consideration shall make me neglect little Emma," I replied, defiantly. By this time Mrs. Embury had rocked her to sleep, and she lay, pale and with an air of complete exhaustion, in her arms. "You must lie down now, Miss Mortimer," Dr. Elliott said, as he rose to go. "I will return in a few hours to see how you both do." He stood looking at, Emma, but did not go. Then Mrs. Embury asked the question I had not dared to ask. "Is the poor child in danger?" "I cannot say; I trust not. Miss Mortimer's presence of mind in extinguishing the flames at once, has, I hope, saved its life." "It was not my presence of mind, it was Lucy's!" I cried, eagerly. Oh, how I envied her for being the heroine, and for the surprised, delighted smile with which he went and took her hand, saying, "I congratulate you, Lucy! How your mother will rejoice at this!" I tried to think of nothing but poor little Emma, and of the reward Aunty had had for her kindness to Lucy. But I thought of myself, and how likely it was that under the same circumstances I should have been beside myself, and done nothing. This, and many other emotions, made me burst out crying. "Yes, cry, cry, with all your heart," said Mrs. Embury, laying Emma gently down, and coming to get me into her arms. "It will do you good, poor child!" She cried with me, till at last I could lie down and try to sleep. Well, the days and the weeks were very long after that. Dear mother had a hard time, what with her anxiety about Emma, and my crossness and unreasonableness. Dr. Elliott came and went, came and went. At last he said all danger was over, and that our patient little darling would get well. But his visits did not diminish; he came twice and three times every day. Sometimes I hoped he would tell us about his new flame, and sometimes I felt that I could not hear her mentioned. One day mother was so unwell that I had to help him dress Emma's burns, and I could not help saying: "Even a mother's gentlest touch, full of love as it is, is almost rough compared with that of one trained to such careful handling as you are." He looked gratified, but said: "I am glad you begin to find that even stones feel, sometimes." Another time something was said about the fickleness of women. Mrs. Embury began it. I fired up, of course. He seemed astonished at my attack. "I said nothing," he declared. "No, but you looked a good many things. Now the fact is, women are not fickle. When they lose what they value most, they find it impossible to replace it. But men console themselves with the first good thing that comes along." I dare say I spoke bitterly, for I was thinking how soon Ch----, I mean somebody, replaced me in his shallow heart, and how, with equal speed, Dr. Elliott had helped himself to a new love.