“Fanny! Fanny!” Mary called in mortal fright, for her baby was almost black with his gasping breath, and she had no one to ask for aid or sympathy but her landlady’s daughter, a little girl of twelve or thirteen, who attended to the house in her mother’s absence, as daily cook in gentlemen’s families. Fanny was more especially considered the attendant of the upstairs lodgers (who paid for the use of the kitchin, “for Jenkins could not abide the smell of meat cooking”), but just now she was fortunately sitting at her afternoon’s work of darning stockings, and hearing Mrs. Hodgson’s cry of terror, she ran to her sitting-room, and understood the case at a glance. “He’s got the croup! Oh, Mrs. Hodgson, he’ll die as sure as fate. Little brother had it, and he died in no time. The doctor said he could do nothing for him—it had gone too far. He said if we’d put him in a warm bath at first, it might have saved him; but, bless you! he was never half so bad as your baby.” Unconsciously there mingled in her statement some of a child’s love of producing an effect; but the increasing danger was clear enough. “Oh, my baby! my baby! Oh, love, love! don’t look so ill; I cannot bear it. And my fire so low! There, I was thinking of home, and picking currants, and never minding the fire. Oh, Fanny! what is the fire like in the kitchen? Speak.” “Mother told me to screw it up, and throw some slack on as soon as Mrs. Jenkins had done with it, and so I did. It’s very low and black. But, oh, Mrs. Hodgson! let me run for the doctor—I cannot abear to hear him, it’s so like little brother.” Through her streaming tears Mary motioned her to go; and trembling, sinking, sick at heart, she laid her boy in his cradle, and ran to fill her kettle. Mrs. Jenkins, having cooked her husband’s snug little dinner, to which he came home; having told him her story of pussy’s beating, at which he was justly and dignifiedly indignant, saying it was all of a piece with that abusive _Examiner_; having received the sausages, and turkey, and mince pies, which her husband had ordered; and cleaned up the room, and prepared everything for tea, and coaxed and duly bemoaned her cat (who had pretty nearly forgotten his beating, but very much enjoyed the petting), having done all these and many other things, Mrs. Jenkins sate down to get up the real lace cap. Every thread was pulled out separately, and carefully stretched: when, what was that? Outside, in the street, a chorus of piping children’s voices sang the old carol she had heard a hundred times in the days of her youth:— “As Joseph was a walking he heard an angel sing, ‘This night shall be born our heavenly King. He neither shall be born in housen nor in hall, Nor in the place of Paradise, but in an ox’s stall. He neither shall be clothed in purple nor in pall, But all in fair linen, as were babies all: He neither shall be rocked in silver nor in gold, But in a wooden cradle that rocks on the mould,’” &c.