"The Duke of Marlborough has rid post to Cambridge, call’d thither by the desperate state of the Marquis of Blandford. It is now ’stablish’d beyond doubt that the young Lord is suffering from the Small-Pox." Even the great duke had his troubles. Lord Blandford was, as Harry knew, Marlborough’s only son; he was the Lord Churchill who had written to Godolphin with boyish curiosity to know what his title would be when his father became a duke. Harry passed on, more than ever convinced that the great man, beset by cares public and domestic, could have no time to think of the small concerns of a country parson’s son. He turned into the Savoy and came by and by to the Temple Gardens, forlorn and desolate in the chill February evening. Not far behind him three sailors were sauntering in the same direction, on their way perhaps to rejoin their vessel in the Thames. The damp cold air struck Harry to the bone; he shivered and drew his cloak closer around him, and was on the point of turning to retrace his steps when there suddenly stood before him a woman, thin-clad, bare-headed, with a whining child in her arms. "Spare a penny, kind sir, to buy bread. My lips have not touched food the livelong day, and my little boy is fair starved. Oh, sir, have pity on a poor lone woman; spare a penny, kind sir." Harry stopped and looked at the thin haggard cheeks, the dark-rimmed eyes, the hair hanging in loose damp wisps over the brow. The child’s feeble moans stabbed him like a knife; its poor pinched wizened face was a speaking tale of woe. Loosening his cloak, the woman all the while continuing her monotonous complaint, he untied his purse. It contained a guinea and one crown piece. At that moment the three sailors passed him, talking loudly, and laughing coarsely as they jostled the woman in their path. "The poor creature’s need is greater than mine," he thought. "Sherry will bring back some money. Here you are," he said, handing her the guinea. "And for God’s sake take your little one out of the damp and cold! Good-night!" Harry moved on, impressed by the spectacle of a misery deeper than his own, and pursued by the voluble thanks of the poor woman. He had forgotten his purpose to turn back; and was only recalled to it by the sight of the three sailors rolling on ahead. They were walking arm in arm, and from their gait Harry concluded that the middle one of the three was intoxicated, and needed the support of his comrades. One of them glanced back over his shoulder just as Harry was turning. The next moment there was a heavy thud; the drunken sailor was on the ground, the others bending over him. A hoarse cry for help caused Harry to hasten to the group. "What is amiss?" he asked. "Be you a surgeon, mate?" replied the man, a thickset and powerful salt. "Bill be taken wi’ a fit, sure enough. A’s foaming at the mouth." "No, I’m not a surgeon. I thought he was drunk." "Not him. Belay there; let the gentleman see."