I did my best to encourage her and then made what haste I could to the house of Roger Treffit, which stood lank and dark against the black sky. As it was Saturday night I hoped that Roger would be away, but it was his voice that bade me enter, and the dog rose to give me welcome. The fire roared up the chimney and the wind met it there with answering roar. Roger was sitting with his feet stretched out to the blaze, one arm resting upon the table and encircling a half-empty whiskey bottle. In his right hand he held a tumbler nearly full of spirits. I saw at a glance that he was very drunk, but I believed him to be harmless. "Is Mrs. Treffit upstairs? may I go to her at once?" I asked. "Quite all right, ma'am, quite all right. Show lady ... way, Miss T'ry.... Missis ill ... kid ill ... Miss T'ry ill ... ev'yb'dy ill. Doctor says mus' keep kid quiet, mus'n' disturb 'er. Won't let 'em disturb 'er, I won't.... Go forw'd, ma'am." He rose steadily enough, and held the door open for me to pass through, and I heard him mutter as he returned to his chair: "Won't let 'em disturb 'er, I won't." Martha greeted me in her usual sadly-cordial fashion, and motioned me to a chair near the bed where the little one lay, flushed and asleep. "She's a bit better," she whispered, "but she's to be kept quiet, an' whatever I do I haven't to miss 'er med'cine every hour. But he says wi' care an' good nursin' she'll pull through." "And how is your cough?" I asked. "Oh, about as usual," she replied indifferently. "I have to cough into my apron when Lucy's asleep, but I should soon be right enough if I'd nought to worrit about. It's yon chap downstairs 'at 'll be t' death of us both." "Has he no engagement to-night? I thought he was never free on Saturdays." "It's t' dog. She's poorly again, an' he can't work her. My opinion is 'at t' poor brute's about done, an' I believe Roger knows it an' it's drivin' 'im mad. He drinks t' day through, an' in a bit there'll be nought for us but t' work'us, for I can't keep 'im i' whiskey; an' whativver's goin' to come o' our poor little Lucy I don't know. I've been lookin' at her as she lay there, Miss 'Olden, so sweet an' pretty, like a little angel, an' I a'most asked the Lord to take 'er out of all t' trouble, but I couldn't bide to lose 'er." The overwrought woman buried her face in her apron and sobbed convulsively--deep-drawn, quiet sobs which told of her soul's agony. A solitary candle was burning upon the dressing-table, and the room looked eerie in the half darkness. Outside the storm was at its height, and in the stillness which neither of us broke I heard it shriek with the shrillness which one associates with spirits in torment.