"Why, Bill!" she exclaimed, looking at him scrutinisingly.

"Yes, dear."

"Why, you haven't been to bed all night!"

"No, dear."

"Why, if you haven't been watching down there by that cottage!" she cried.

"Yes, dear," he said quietly. "It seemed to do me good like."

"Oh, Bill!"

"And then I went to the post-office, and I've telegraphed for Sir Henry Venner to come down by special train."

"You have, Bill dear! Why, that's the Queen's doctor, ain't it."

"Yes, dear."

"But won't it cost a heap of money?"

"I'd give every penny I've got and sell myself too," he said, with a ring of simple pathos in his voice, "if it would bring that poor darling back to herself."

He laid his arms upon the table, and his forehead went down upon them, as he said softly, as if to himself--

"I don't want any return--I'm not selfish--and I'd ask nothing back. I could go on loving her always, and be glad to see her happy, only please G.o.d to let her live--please G.o.d let her live!"

Little Miss Burge, with the tears streaming down her honest round face, rose from her seat at the breakfast-table, and went down upon her knees beside her brother, to lay her cheek against one of his hands.

"I'm going down to her now, Bill dear," she said softly; "and I'll watch by her night and day; for I think I love her, poor dear! as much as you."

"G.o.d bless you, Betsey dear!" he said, drawing her to his breast, and speaking now with energy. "I couldn't ask you to go, for it seemed like sending you where I daren't go myself; but if you could go, dear, I should be a happier man!"

"And go I will, Bill; and I will do my best."

"And look here, dear!" he cried, quite excitedly now, "you don't know how you're helping me, for now I can do what I want."

"What's that, dear?"

"Why, I thought, dear, if the big doctor would give leave, we might bring the poor girl on here; but I daren't even think of it before, on account of you. You, see, dear, I could send away the servants, and get a nurse to come."

"Oh yes; do, Bill dear!" cried the little body eagerly. "We'd put her in the west room, which would be so bright and cheerful, and--There, I'm standing talking when I ought to go."

In fact, within five minutes little Miss Burge was ready, with her luggage on her arm; the said luggage consisting of a clean night-dress, "ditto" cap, a cake of soap, and a brush and comb; with which easily portable impedimenta she was soon after settled in Mrs Potts's dreary low-roofed room.

"No, miss," whispered the rough woman, "never slep' a wink all night; but kep' on talk, talk, talk, talking about her mother and father, and Squire Canninge, and the school pence, and that she was in disgrace."

"And teacher kep' saying Mr William Forth Burge was her dearest friend," put in Feelier, in a shrill, weak voice.

"Hush!" whispered little Miss Burge, for their voices had disturbed Hazel, who, till then, had been lying in a kind of stupor.

She opened her eyes widely, and stared straight before her.

"Are you there, Mr Burge?--are you there?" she said in a quick, excited whisper.

"No, my dear; it's me, Betsey Burge. I've come to stop with you."

"I didn't know how good and kind you were then--when I spoke as I did.

I was very blind then--I was very blind then," sighed Hazel wearily.

"And you'll soon be better now," said little Miss Burge in a soft, cheery way. "There--let me turn your pillow; it's all so hot, and--Mrs Potts, send up for two pillows out of our best room directly."

"Yes, mum; I'll go myself;" and Mrs Potts hurried away.

"There, my dear, you'll be nicer and cooler now, and--Oh, dear me, what a lot of things I do want! Mrs Potts, call at the druggist's for some eau-de-cologne--a big bottle mind."

"Yes, mum," came from below.

"Her poor head's like fire. There, dear--there, my poor dear, let me lay your hair away from you; it will cool your head."

"Please, Miss Burge, don't let them cut off all teacher's hair,"

whispered Feelier from the other bed.

"No, my dear; not if I can help it."

"I want to tell you I was so ungrateful when you spoke to me as you did, Mr Burge," said Hazel in her low excited whisper.

"No, no, my darling, not ungrateful," said little Miss Burge, in the soothing voice any one would adopt to a child.--"Poor dear, she don't know what she's saying."

"I have lain here and thought of what you have done," continued Hazel, "and how self-denying you have always been to me; and I was ungrateful for it all. I know now I was ungrateful."

"She is wandering, poor girl!" said little Miss Burge, with a sob, as she busied herself in making the room more comfortable, after she had smoothed Hazel's pillow and opened the window wide to give her more air.

After this she turned her attention to poor Feelier, rearranging her pillow, and ending by bathing her face and hands, the poor girl uttering a sigh of relief and pleasure, sinking back afterwards upon her cool pillow, too weak almost to raise her arm.

"There, now you feel more comfortable, don't you, my dear?" whispered the busy little woman.

"Oh, yes, and--and--and--please--please I'll never do so no more."

Poor Feelier burst into a pa.s.sionate fit of tearful remorse, sobbing wildly in spite of little Miss Burge's efforts to calm her.

"Oh! hush, hush, my dear; pray be still."

"I--I--I used to make faces at you in school," sobbed Feelier.

"Yes, yes, yes; but hush my dear. You only did it in fun."

"N-no, I didn't," sobbed Feelier; "I did it to make--make the other girls laugh."

"But hush, pray hush, or you'll hurt poor Miss Thorne."