Nancy had put her gaunt arm around the girl's waist, and was patting her quivering shoulder with one cotton-gloved hand. Two red spots had come on her high cheek-bones, and her lips were working. She let herself be led across the hall into an adjoining room, where a yellow-haired child lay restless and fever stricken. A young man with a haggard face came forward and greeted her eagerly. "Now, Flora," he said, smoothing his wife's disordered hair, "you don't need to worry any more; we shall get on now. I'm sure she's a little better to-day; don't you think so?" He appealed to Nancy, wistfully. "Yes; I think she is," said Nancy stoutly, moving her head in awkward defiance of her own words. "There, Flora, that's just what the doctor said," pleaded the husband. The young wife clung to the older woman desperately. "Oh, do you think so?" she faltered. "You know, I never _could_ stand it. She's all--well, of course, there's the baby--but--oh--you see--you know--I never could bear it!" She broke down again, sobbing, with her arms about Nancy's neck. "Yes, you can bear it," said Nancy. "You can bear it if you have to, but you ain't a-goin' to have to--she's a-goin' to get well. An' you've got your man--you ought to recollect that"--she stifled a sob--"he seems well an' hearty." The young wife raised her head and looked at her husband with tearful scorn. He met her gaze meekly, with that ready self-effacement which husbands seem to feel in the presence of maternity. "Have you two poor things been here all alone?" asked Nancy. "Yes," sobbed the girl-wife, this time on her husband's shoulder; "everybody was afraid,--we couldn't get any one,--and I don't know anything. You're the first woman I've seen since--oh, it's been _so_ long!" "Well, you're all nervous and worn out and half starved," announced Nancy, untying her bonnet-strings. "I've had sickness, but I've never been this bad off. Now, you just take care of the little girl, and I'll take care of you." It was a caretaking like the sudden stilling of the tempest that came to the little household. The father and mother would not have said that the rest and order that pervaded the house, and finally crept into the room where the sick child lay, came from a homely woman with an ill-fitting dress and hard, knotted hands. To them she seemed the impersonation of beauty and peace on earth. That night Nancy wrote to her husband. The letter was not very explicit, but limited expression seems to have its compensations. There are comparatively few misunderstandings among the animals that do not write at all. To Robert the letter seemed entirely satisfactory. This is what she wrote:--