‘Oh, what does it matter about me?’ says she in a low, impatient tone. ‘Think of him. All last night he cried—he cried dreadfully. And what cut me to the heart,’ says the girl in an agonized tone, ‘was that I think sometimes he was keeping back his tears, for fear they should grieve me. Oh, how he suffers! Mr. Crosby’—suddenly, almost sharply—‘should people, should little, lovely, darling children like this, suffer so horribly, and when it is no fault of their own? Oh’—passionately—‘it is frightful! it is wrong! Father is sometimes angry with me about saying it, but how can God be so cruel?’ Her tone vibrates with wild and angry grief, yet still she keeps it low. It strikes Crosby as wonderful that, through all her violent agitation, she never forgets the child sleeping in her arms. He says nothing, however. Who could, to comfort her, in an hour like this? He bends over the sleeping child and looks at him. Such a small face, and so lovely, in spite of the furrows pain has laid upon it. How clearly writ they are! And yet the child is like Susan—strangely like. In the young blooming face, bending over the emaciated one, the likeness can be traced. ‘You think—you think——’ whispers Susan eagerly, following his gaze, and demanding an answer to it. ‘He looks ill, but——’ ‘But?’ There is a terrible inquiry—oh, more, poor child!—there is terrible entreaty in her question. ‘Susan,’ says Crosby, ‘there is always hope. But the child is very ill.’ ‘Ah!’ She shrinks from him. ‘That there is no hope is what you want to say to me.’ ‘It is not. Far worse cases have sometimes recovered. But in the meantime’ anxiously—‘I think of you. You look exhausted. You shouldn’t keep him on your lap like that. I have just seen Miss Barry, and she tells me you keep him in your arms by night and by day.’ Susan turns upon him with an almost fierce light in her gentle eyes. ‘I shall keep him in my arms always—always—when he wishes it. I——’ She stops. ‘He can’t die whilst I hold him,’ cries she. She draws in her breath sharply, and then, as if the cruel word ‘die’ has stung her, she breaks into silent, but most bitter, weeping. ‘This is killing you,’ says Crosby. ‘Oh, I almost wish it were,’ says she. She has choked back her tears, fearing lest the sleeping child should be disturbed by the heaving of her chest. She lifts her haggard, sad young eyes to his. ‘It is I who have brought him to this pass. Every pang of his should by right be mine. It is I who should bear them.’ ‘It seems to me,’ says Crosby gravely, ‘that you are bearing them.’ He waits a moment; but she has gone back to her contemplation of her little brother’s face. She is hanging over him, her eyes fixed on the pale, fragile features, as if fearing, as if dwelling, on the thought of the last sad moment of all, when he will be no longer with her, when the grave will have closed over him. Presently Crosby, seeing her so absorbed, rises very quietly and takes a step towards the door.