aid her husband, "it is typhus, and you must first think
of the children. I will go."

"What on earth could you do, Mark?" said his wife. "Men on such
occasions are almost worse than useless; and then they are so much
more liable to infection."

"I have no children, nor am I a man," said Lucy, smiling: "for both
of which exemptions I am thankful. I will go, and when I come back I
will keep clear of the bairns."

So it was settled, and Lucy started in the pony-carriage, carrying
with her such things from the parsonage storehouse as were thought to
be suitable to the wants of the sick lady at Hogglestock. When she
arrived there, she made her way into the house, finding the door
open, and not being able to obtain the assistance of the servant
girl in ushering her in. In the parlour she found Grace Crawley,
the eldest child, sitting demurely in her mother's chair nursing an
infant. She, Grace herself, was still a young child, but not the
less, on this occasion of well-understood sorrow, did she go through
her task, not only with zeal but almost with solemnity. Her brother,
a boy of six years old, was with her, and he had the care of another
baby. There they sat in a cluster, quiet, grave, and silent,
attending on themselves, because it had been willed by fate that no
one else should attend on them. "How is your mamma, dear Grace?" said
Lucy, walking up to her, and holding out her hand.

"Poor mamma is very ill, indeed," said Grace.

"And papa is very unhappy," said Bobby, the boy.

"I can't get up because of baby," said Grace; "but Bobby can go and
call papa out."

"I will knock at the door," said Lucy; and so saying she walked up to
the bedroom door, and tapped against it lightly. She repeated this
for the third time before she was summoned in by a low hoarse voice,
and then on entering she saw Mr. Crawley standing by the bedside with
a book in his hand. He looked at her uncomfortably, in a manner which
seemed to show that he was annoyed by this intrusion, and Lucy was
aware that she had disturbed him while at prayers by the bedside of
his wife. He came across the room, however, and shook hands with her,
and answered her inquiries in his ordinary grave and solemn voice.
"Mrs. Crawley is very ill," he said--"very ill. God has stricken us
heavily, but His will be done. But you had better not go to her, Miss
Robarts. It is typhus."

The caution, however, was too late; for Lucy was already by the
bedside, and had ta