IT was not till the next afternoon that Winifred found time to visit Dame Sprat again, and then it was only by giving Jack full possession of her new book, that she was able to leave him even for an hour. Jack had usually rather a contempt for Winifred's society, classing her with the rest of "women folks," who he considered were made only to wait upon their fathers and brothers. But the poor boy was no braver about bearing pain than he was about anything else, and he had a great deal of pain to bear. Nobody could turn and smooth his hot pillow, or cool his feverish hands and forehead, or put his bed to rights without hurting him so well as Winnie, not even his mother. And above all, Winifred had never once said or even looked "I told you so!" or, "Just good enough for you!" Remarks which he had to bear often enough from the maids Priscy and Jenny, with whom he was no favorite. But by the afternoon of the next day, Jack began to feel better. He was greatly taken by the pictures of Giant Despair and Apollyon in the "Pilgrim's Progress," and he agreed, if Winnie would leave him the book, to allow her to go to Dame Sprat's, provided she did not stay too long. Winifred was glad to get away upon any terms. She took on her arm the basket Mrs. Alwright had sent, and set off across the fields, thinking, as she went, of Christian setting out on his pilgrimage with his burden on his back, of the little wicket-gate, and of Mr. Worldly Wiseman, who, she fancied, might have looked a good deal like Sir Edward Peckham. When she reached the dame's cottage, she was surprised not to see the good woman sitting by her window, as usual. "Something must have happened!" she thought, and quickening her steps she entered without knocking. A curious scene met her eyes as she opened the door. The poor old dame was in bed, apparently unable to rise. But everything in the hut was in its usual order, a saucepan was simmering on the embers, and Mr. Carew himself, in his shirt sleeves, was in the act of sweeping up the hearth. He started as Winifred entered, but quickly recovered himself when he recognized the visitor. "So it is you, my fearless little guide!" said he, laughing, and blushing a little. "The dame is ill with rheumatism, and I could do no less than take care of her. I fear I am but a rough sick-nurse, though I think I may fairly call myself a tolerable cook. Eh, dame?" "Indeed, sir, I think you are very skilful in both ways," replied Dame Sprat, "but I fear you are running a great risk."