The room door opened very slowly and softly, and Roy's eyes grew round with astonishment. Nobody entered this infected place except the doctor and the old Frenchwoman in the mornings, and the latter always got away as fast as she could. This new-comer seemed to be in no hurry. She stepped inside, closed the door, and advanced towards the bed. There she stood still to look at Roy; and then she turned to gaze pityingly at Ivor. Roy stared hard, fascinated. She was quite a girl, perhaps two or three years older than Polly. She was very slight, with a plain neatly-fitting dress. The lighted candle in her hand threw a strong glow upon her face. It was a particularly sweet face, delicate and gentle; and it would have been exceedingly pretty, but for the very evident ravages of a long-past attack of small-pox. There were no "pits" on her skin, but a certain soft roughness characterised the whole, as if, once upon a time, it had been covered with pits. Now it was pale, and the features were even, while short black hair curled over a wide forehead, and the dark eyes were full of an intense sadness. Even Roy could not but see that great sadness. As he looked at her she looked at him, and then she sighed. "Pauvre petit!" she said softly. She came close to the bed, and Roy put out his hand, only to snatch it back. "Oh, I mustn't; I forgot. Den told me I must not touch anybody except him, not even that ugly old woman who comes in, because I'm all small-poxy, you know. And oh! I'm so thirsty. I wish he would wake up." "Pauvre enfant!" She went to the table, and brought back a glass of milk, which she held to his lips. Roy drank eagerly. Then she smoothed his bed-clothes, and put his pillow straight. "But you oughtn't to be here, you know; you might catch it," Roy's weak voice said. "Den would tell you to go. Can you talk English? I only know a wee bit of French." "Yes; I can talk English." She said the words in foreign style, with a slow distinctness and separation of the syllables, but with a pure intonation. "I learnt English in your country. Yes, I have been there, for three, four years. Monsieur votre frère--your brother--il a l'air d'être très fatigué." "Den isn't my brother. He's only--he's just Den, you know. Captain Denham Ivor, of His Majesty's Guards. He hasn't been to sleep for ever so long, and that's why he's tired. My ear has been so awfully bad, oh! for days and days. And I couldn't get to sleep, and Den was always by me--always." The girl left Roy, and went closer to the sleeping man. He remained motionless; his arms loosely folded; a slight dew of exhaustion upon the brow; the face extremely pale. She sheltered the light from his eyes with her hand, and looked steadily. Then, turning away, she began putting things straight in the room. A few womanly touches altered wondrously the aspect of the whole. Roy lay and watched her.