“But I am well. I shall work while heaven gives me strength, then—God’s will be done,” was the low-voiced, tremulous reply, and its pathos sent a quick stab of pain through the young physician’s heart. There was a certain hopelessness in it that moved him deeply. He found another woman to go out to the villa with them, he feared she would be hardly suited to the sick-room; still it was the best he could do; and he had to be content. He tried to engage Sister Angela in conversation on their way thither, but she would not talk. She listened to whatever he had to say with bowed head and clasped hands, and when actually obliged to answer him, she did so in the briefest manner. Arriving at the villa, Dr. Winthrop found his father alarmingly ill. Evelyn was considerably frightened, but in no immediate danger. Madame Winthrop was far from well, but did not as yet show any symptoms of the terrible scourge. Norman Winthrop was doing the best that he could for them all, with the assistance of the servants; but he was greatly relieved by the appearance of his brother and his assistants. Mrs. Rochester and her daughter had shut themselves in their own rooms as soon as Mr. Winthrop was attacked, and kept aloof as much as possible from every one. They would have been glad now to flee from France at once, if they had not feared they would be overtaken by the plague before they could reach a place of safety. Sister Angela at once took up her position at the bedside of Mr. Winthrop; but, though she was faithful in the minutest particular and Dr. Winthrop spared no effort to save his father, he died on the next morning after their arrival, and in accordance with the prevailing law, was immediately buried. This affliction of course made Evelyn worse. Madame Winthrop was at once prostrated, while, before the day was over, Dr. Winthrop was summoned to attend Miss Rochester, who was violently attacked with cramps. “We must have more help,” he said, with pale lips, a little later to Sister Angela. “Where shall I turn for another nurse?” The faithful nun, after thinking a moment, drew forth a note-book, wrote a few lines, then, tearing a couple of leaves from it, was about to pass them to the physician, when she suddenly seemed to change her mind and, crumpling them in her hand, hastily thrust them into her capacious pocket. “Could you find No. 15 Rue de ——?” she asked, mentioning a street in an humble quarter of Paris. “Yes, I can find any place if there is hope of getting a nurse in this terrible emergency,” he desperately returned. “Then go—inquire for Harriet Winter; tell her Sister Angela has need of her and she will come. Hasten, monsieur, for time is precious.” Dr. Winthrop needed no second bidding; he did not even pause to wonder that the French nun had sent him for a woman with a very American name.