For four days the Duchess paid a visit to Bob, upon whom Dr. Lyon was then attending. The doctor met her on the fifth day, and forbade her to come again, saying something about fever, which the Duchess did not understand. Two days after that she herself was taken ill. Sally did not leave her; the Duchess lay quiet until the afternoon, when she suddenly asked Sally how Bob was. "Oh, my!" cried Sally, clasping her hands. "Bob's got the fever. You ain't been to see him, have you?" But the Duchess had already forgotten her inquiry, and seemed to fall asleep before Sally's reply could reach her understanding. Seth Dumbrick came down every half-hour to look at his child, and grew so uneasy about her that he went for Dr. Lyon. This was in the evening, and Sally peered anxiously into the doctor's face as he felt the Duchess's pulse. "I was afraid of it," said the doctor to Seth, "when I saw her at the boy's house. She's caught the fever. This is not the best place for a child to fight through an illness. We might manage to get her into the hospital." "No, oh, no!" cried Sally; "don't let her be took there!" "We can take care of her here," said Seth. "I shouldn't like to lose sight of the child." "Very well. And are you going to nurse her, Sally?" "Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir," said Sally, whose face had suddenly assumed a pinched expression. "I'll stop up with her day and night. I won't take my clothes off till she's better." Dr. Lyon gave her a kind look and a kiss, and, promising to send in some medicine, took his departure. Then commenced an anxious time. The fever assumed a dangerous form, and for days the Duchess's life was in danger. Never till now had Seth Dumbrick realised how deeply he loved this child of his adoption. He wandered in and out of the cellar a hundred times a day, meek but fretful, with gentleness, but not with resignation. He and Sally had changed places; she was the strong, reliant soul in their humble home, and the old man looked to the child for support and consolation. "If our angel dies, Sally," he said, "I shall never know happiness again." Sally averted her face from him to check the weakness that threatened to overcome her. She knew full well that she needed all her strength for the work she was performing; the instinct of devoted love--which needs no teaching to bring it into flower--had instilled wisdom into the child's heart. "Some kinds of knowledge come to a man late in life," he continued softly; "since you and our darling have been with me I've learnt something that I was ignorant of. I'd read of it, not quite in an unbelieving way, but with the sort of doubt upon me that a story writ to amuse a child might bring. Since then I've known what happiness is." "Did you never know before?" asked Sally wistfully. "Never before, my child," he answered, huskily. "Daddy," said Sally solemnly, "you mustn't make me cry. I ain't got time for it. There's the beef-tea to git ready, and the arrerroot----"