Mrs. Carpenter did not know what to do with this passion, the cause of which she was at a loss to understand. It was very real; Rotha sobbed; and her mother was at a loss how to comfort her. What dim, far-off recognition was this, of powers and possibilities in life--or in herself --of which the girl had hitherto no experience and no knowledge? It was quite just Mrs. Carpenter, herself refined and essentially lady-like, knew very well that her little girl was not growing up to be a lady; she had laid that off, along with several other subjects of care, as beyond her reach to deal with; but Rotha's appeal smote a tender spot in her heart, and she was puzzled how to answer her. Perhaps it was just as well that she took refuge in her usual silence and did not try any further. As Mr. Digby was going through the little passage way to the front door, another door opened and Mrs. Marble's head was put out. "Good morning!" she said. "You're a friend of those folks up stairs, aint you?" "Yes, certainly." "Well, what do you think of her?" she said, lowering her voice. "I think you are a happy woman, to have such lodgers, Mrs. Marble." "I guess I know as much as that," said the mantua-maker, with her pleasant, arch smile. "I meant something else. _I_ think, she's a sick woman." Mr. Digby did not commit himself. "I'm worried to death about her," Mrs. Marble went on. "Her cough's bad, and it's growin' worse; and she aint fit to be workin' this minute. And what's goin' to become of her?" "The Lord takes care of his children; and she is one." "If there is such a thing!" said the mantua-maker, a quick tear dimming her eye. "But you see, I have my own work, and I can't leave it to do much for her; and she won't let me, neither; and I am thinkin' about it day and night. She aint fit to work, this minute. And there's the child; and they haven't a living soul to care for them, as I see, in all the world. They never have a letter, and they never get a visit, except your'n." "Rent paid?" asked the gentleman low. "Always! never miss. But I'm thinkin'--how do they live? That child's grown thin--she's like a piece o' wiggin'; she'll hold up when there's nothin' to her." Mr. Digby could not help laughing. "I thought, if you can't help, nobody can. What's to become of them if she gets worse? That child can't do for her." "Thank you, Mrs. Marble; you are but touching what I have thought of myself. I will see what can be done." "And don't be long about it," said the mantua-maker with a nod of her head as she closed the door.