duty before she could leave her house; and so it was nearly half an
hour before they came to my relief. And all this time the sick boy
tossed and moaned, and cried for water. I gave him some from a mug on
the table, not so much from any precocious gift for sick nursing (for
I was simply "frightened out of my wits"), but because the imperative
tone of his demand forced me involuntarily into doing what he wanted.
He grumbled, when between us we spilt the water on his clothes, and
then, soothed for a few seconds, he lay down, till the fever, like a
possessing demon, tossed him about once more, and his throat became as
parched as ever, and again he moaned for "a drink," and we repeated
the process. This time the mug was emptied, and when he called a third
time I could only say, "The mug's empty."

"There's a pot behind the door," he muttered, impatiently; "look
sharp!"

Now food, and drink, and all other necessaries of life came to me
without effort or seeking, and I was as little accustomed as any other
rich man's son to forage for supplies; but on this occasion
circumstances forced out of me a helpfulness which necessity early
teaches to the poor. I became dimly cognizant of the fact that water
does not spring spontaneously in carafes, nor take a delicate colour
and flavour in toast-and-water jugs of itself. I found the water-pot,
replenished the mug, and went back to my patient. By the time his
mother returned I had become quite clever in checking the spasmodic
clutches which spilt the cold water into his neck.

From what Mrs. Taylor said to her friend, it was evident that she
disapproved in some way of my presence, and the boy's mother replied
to her whispered remonstrances, "I was _that_ put out, I never
thought;" which I have no doubt was strictly true.

As I afterwards learnt, she got the blanket, and never ceased to laud
my generosity.

I was rather proud of it myself, and it was not without complacency
that I recounted to Nurse Bundle my first essay in "visiting the
sick."

But complacency was the last feeling my narrative awoke in Mrs.
Bundle. She was alarmed out of all presence of mind; and her
indignation with the woman who had requited my kindness by allowing me
to go into a house infected with fever knew no bounds. She had no pity
to spare for her when the news reached us that the child was dead.

Nothing further came of it for some time. Days passed, and it was
almost forgotten, only I became decid