The burnt child, an intelligent girl of five years old, lay in the little bed, Sister Phoebe sitting with her. The window of the room faced the road; it had upright iron bars before it: originally placed there, perhaps, to prevent the nuns putting their heads out to take a sly peep at the world. Polly Gleeson was in less pain, and lay quietly. Mr. Parker had looked in, and confirmed Sister Mildred's opinion that she would do well. The door opened gently, and there entered Sister Mary Ursula and Miss Reene. Ethel, hearing of the accident, had come down from Greylands' Rest. Sister Phoeby rose, smiling and nodding, and they approached the bed. "She is ever so much better," said the watching Sister. "See, she does not cry at all." Polly was a pretty little girl. Her brown hair lay around her on the bolster; her dark eyes smiled at the ladies. The face was not touched, and nothing could be seen of the injuries as she lay: the worst of them were about the chest and shoulders. Tears stood in Ethel's eyes. "Poor little Polly!" she said, stooping gently to kiss her. "How did it happen, little one?" "Billy took the candle to look for a marble on the floor, and I looked too; and then there come a great light and mother screeched out." "But were you not in bed before that time, Folly? It was past nine o'clock." "Mother was undressing of us then: she'd been a busy washing." "Poor little darling! Well, Polly, you will be well soon; and you must take great care of candles after this." Polly gave as emphatic a nod as the bolster allowed her; as much as to say she would never go within wide range of a candle again. Miss Castlemaine took Sister Phoeby's place, and the latter went away. That the child was now at ease, appeared evident; for presently her eyelids, heavy with sleep, gradually closed. She had had no sleep all night. Mary Ursula took some work from her pocket. The Sisters were making garments for this child: all she had--and a poor "all" it was--had been from the floor by the terrified mother, and caught up rolled round her to put the fire out. "How peaceful it seems here," said Ethel in a low tone. "I think I should like to come and be a Sister with you, Mary." Miss Castlemaine smiled one of her sad smiles. "That would never do, Ethel." "It is so useful a life." "You will find usefulness in another sphere. It would not be right that you should bury yourself here." "We all told you that, Mary, you know, at Greylands' Rest. But you have done it." "My dear, the cases are essentially different. My hopes of happiness, my prospects in the world were over: yours, Ethel, are not even yet in the bud. When some good man shall woo and win you, you will find where your proper sphere of usefulness lies." "I don't want to be won," spoke Ethel: just as young girls are given to say. "I'm sure I would ten times be a Grey Sister than marry Harry Castlemaine."