ever, but not for
long. Allison's touch, and her firm and gentle words, soothed and
quieted her. The broth which she had refused at dinner was brought her,
and was eaten, and the worst was over.

But the rain was falling in torrents by this time, and while they
waited, Marjorie fell asleep in Allison's arms.

It had not been a very good day for Mrs Esselmont. She was not strong,
the heat and gloom had depressed her, and she sighed now and then as she
sat beside Allison and the child in the darkening room. Allison
wondered whether she had any new sorrow to trouble her.

"She is nearly done with all sorrow now. She must be glad of _that_,"
thought Allison.

"I hope they will not be anxious about you at home," said Mrs
Esselmont, speaking softly not to waken Marjorie.

"No, madam, I don't think it. And Mrs Hume will be sure to send one of
the lads with a lantern if the rain should keep on."

"They know you are to be trusted with the child. You have done her much
good, poor wee lammie."

"She has done me much good," said Allison.

"I am sure of it. In the way of kindness done, as in other ways, `It is
more blessed to give than to receive.' You are a good nurse, Allison."

"I love the child. It is a great pleasure to do for her."

"It is your love for her that makes you wise and firm in dealing with
her. And you have been a sick-nurse, I hear."

Mrs Esselmont was thinking of the time which Allison had passed in the
infirmary, but Allison had for the moment forgotten that. Her thoughts
had gone back to her home and her mother, who had needed her care so
long.

"My mother was long ill, and there was no one but me to do for her. I
learned to do many things to ease and help her first, and my father
afterward."

"Have they been long dead?" asked Mrs Esselmont gently.

"A long while it _seems_--but it is not so very long. There was little
time between them, and all things seemed to come to an end when they
were gone."

Mrs Esselmont listened in wonder to the low, pathetic voice which told
her this. Was this the girl who had never spoken of her past life in
the hearing of any one--who had never named father or mother or home,
except perhaps to little Marjorie? Mrs Esselmont was a wise woman.
She would have liked well to hear more, but she asked no question to
startle her into silence again. After a little she said:

"They were happy in having a loving daughter to close their eyes." And
she si