ing, screaming, and calling on her dear child, quite
helpless at the moment, while Mary took the moaning child. Captain
Carbonel, with his own knife (finding it more effective than the blunt
old knife on the table), cut off the remains of the little garments
which had become tinder, and then handed his wife the flour in a sort of
scoop, and as she sprinkled it over the burnt surface, the shrieks and
moans abated and gradually died away, the child muttered, "Nice, nice,"
and another word or two, which her mother understood as asking for
something to drink. Beer, to Mary's dismay, was the only thing at hand,
but after a sup of that, the little thing's black eyes closed, and she
said something of "Mammy," and "Bye, bye." The great old cradle stood
by, still used, though the child was three years old, and Mrs Carbonel
laid her carefully in it.

"I think she will get well," said she to the mother, "only you must not
let the flour be disturbed on any account." She had arranged
handkerchiefs, her own, and a red one of Tirzah's, to cover the
dressing. "I will send you some milk, and don't let the coverings be
disturbed. Let her lie; only give her milk when she wants it, and I
will come to see her to-morrow."

Tirzah was sobbing quietly now, but she got out a choked question as to
whether the child could get well.

"Oh yes; no fear of that, if you let the flour alone, as Mrs Carbonel
tells you," said the captain.

"Oh, oh! if it wasn't for you--" the mother began.

But Edmund wanted to get his wife away before there was a scene, and cut
it short with, "There, there! We'll come again. Only let her alone,
and don't meddle with the flour."

Tirzah did what no native of Uphill would have thought of. She clasped
Mrs Carbonel's hand, threw herself on her knees, and kissed it.

"Thank God, not me," said Mary, much moved. "But you will give her to
God now, and let her be baptised. I think she will live, but it ought
to be as God's child."

When the curate came in a little later, to hear how the child was,
Tirzah allowed him to baptize her privately. It might partly have been
the dread of missing the Burial Service, but far more because in this
present mood she was ready to do anything for madam.

Even when the neighbours thronged in, and Mrs Spurrell wanted to take
the child up, pull off the flour, and anoint her with oil and spirit,
she would not hear of it.

"They as saved her shall have their will of her," sai