She would have been content to have gone on in this way all the years of her life; not so the Duchess. Her nature was one which yearned for excitement; and she was happier in the streets than in the home Seth Dumbrick had given her. As she grew, her beauty ripened, and, with every penny which Sally could beg or borrow or earn spent upon her personal adornment, she moved among the usually sad streets and their residents like a bright flower; and as she grew and bloomed, those among whom she spent her days became prouder and prouder of her. Even the grown-up people petted and flattered her, and spread her fame into other streets and other neighbourhoods which could not boast of a Duchess. She was no trouble to her guardian, except that she developed the propensity of wandering away, and absenting herself for hours, to the distress and misery of Sally, who was never happy when her idol was out of her sight. It never occurred to Seth that there was a dangerous want in the child's life, the want of womanly companionship and womanly counsel and tenderness. The child had Sally, and Sally in Seth's eyes was worth a thousand women; and besides, the lonely life he himself had led precluded the possibility of such a thought causing him disturbance. So things went on until the Duchess of Rosemary Lane was seven years of age, when an event occurred which brought sorrow into Seth Dumbrick's household. The child suddenly sickened and fell ill. It was Sally's custom to rise early, immediately after Seth himself had risen and had left the cellar, dressing herself quietly, so as not to disturb her darling, who was generally asleep. Sally, after gently and tenderly kissing the Duchess's pretty face, busied herself with putting the place in order, lighting the fire and preparing the breakfast. Then she would wake the Duchess, assist her to dress, and, breakfast being over, would proceed cheerfully with her household duties. Going to the child's bedside on this morning, Sally found her languid and weak, and disinclined to rise. Sally ran in alarm to her guardian. "I think the Duchess is ill," she said, with quivering lips. Seth immediately accompanied her to the child's bedside. "Aren't you well, Duchess?" he inquired. The Duchess opened her eyes, looked vacantly at him, and turned on her side. "Best let her keep abed," said Seth, placing his hand on the Duchess's forehead, which was hot and dry; "she's caught cold maybe; she'll be all right to-morrow."