t her face
steadily forward towards Guildford. The chill freshness of the November
air was pleasant after the long period of oppressive warmth and
closeness which had gone before, and now that the leaves had really
fallen from the trees, there was less of the heavy humidity in the air
that seemed to hold the germs of distemper and transmit them alike to
man and beast.

The sun was not quite up as they started; but as they entered the silent
streets of Guildford it was shining with a golden glory in strange
contrast to the scenes upon which it would shortly have to look. Early
morning was certainly the best time for Joan to enter the town, for the
cart had been its round, the dead had been removed from the streets, and
the houses were quieter than they often were later in the day. Once in a
way a wild shriek or a burst of demoniacal laughter broke from some
window; and once a girl, with hair flying wildly down her back, flew out
of one of the houses sobbing and shrieking in a frenzy of terror, and
was lost to sight down a side alley before Joan could reach her side.

Pursuing their way through the streets, they turned down the familiar
road leading to John's house, and dismounting at the gate, Joan gave up
her palfrey to William to seek stabling for it behind, and walked up
with Bridget to the open door of the house.

That door was kept wide open night and day, and none who came were ever
turned away. Joan entered the hall, to find great fires burning there,
and round these fires were crowded shivering and moaning beings, some of
the latest victims of the distemper, who had been brought within the
hospitable shelter of that house of mercy, but who had not yet been
provided with beds; for the numbers coming in day by day were even
greater than the vacancies made by deaths constantly occurring in the
wards (as they would now be called). Helpers were few, and of these one
or another would be stricken down, and carried away to burial after a
few hours' illness.

Of the wretched beings grouped about the fires several were little
children, and Joan's heart went out in compassion to the suffering
morsels of humanity. Taking a little moaning infant upon her knee, and
letting two more pillow their weary beads against her dress, she signed
to Bridget to remove her riding cloak, which she gently wrapped about
the scantily-clothed form of a woman extended along the ground at her
feet, to whom the children apparently belonged. Th