As Mrs. Theresa approached, the crowd opened in silence, and in the midst she beheld Frederick, with blood streaming from his face. His head was held by Christopher; and the chimney-sweeper was holding a basin for him. “Merciful! what will become of me?” exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. “Bleeding! he’ll bleed to death! Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute? A key, a large key down his back—a key—has nobody a key? Mr. and Mrs. Montague will be here before he has done bleeding. A key! cobwebs! a puff ball! for mercy’s sake! Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute? Gracious me! he’ll bleed to death, I believe.” “He’ll bleed to death! Oh, my brother!” cried Marianne, catching hold of the words; and terrified, she ran upstairs, crying, “Sophy, oh, Sophy! come down this minute, or he’ll be dead! My brother’s bleeding to death! Sophy! Sophy! come down, or he’ll be dead!” “Let go the basin, you,” said Christopher, pulling the basin out of the chimney-sweeper’s hand, who had all this time stood in silence; “you are not fit to hold the basin for a gentleman.” “Let him hold it,” said Frederick; “he did not mean to hurt me.” “That’s more than he deserves. I’m certain sure he might have known well enough it was Mr. Frederick all the time, and he’d no business to go to fight—such a one as he—with a gentleman.” “I did not know he was a gentleman!” said the chimney-sweeper, “how could I?” “How could he, indeed!” said Frederick; “he shall hold the basin.” “Gracious me! I’m glad to hear him speak like himself again, at anyrate,” cried Mrs. Theresa. “And here comes Miss Sophy, too.” “Sophy!” cried Frederick. “Oh, Sophy, don’t you come—don’t look at me; you’ll despise me.” “My brother! where? where?” said Sophy, looking, as she thought, at the two chimney-sweepers. “It’s Frederick,” said Marianne: “that’s my brother.” “Miss Sophy, don’t be alarmed,” Mrs. Theresa began; “but gracious goodness! I wish Miss Bertha—” At this instant a female figure in white appeared upon the stairs; she passed swiftly on, whilst everyone gave way before her. “Oh, Miss Bertha!” cried Mrs. Theresa, catching hold of her gown to stop her, as she came near Frederick. “Oh, Miss Eden, your beautiful India muslin! take care of the chimney sweeper, for heaven’s sake.” But she pressed forward. “It’s my brother, will he die?” cried Marianne, throwing her arms round her, and looking up as if to a being of a superior order. “Will he bleed to death?” “No, my love!” answered a sweet voice: “do not frighten thyself.” “I’ve done bleeding,” said Frederick.