bedside, rigidly still,
for he could do nothing, but his whole soul absorbed in that horrible
struggle for air. How often he had seen it now, and never without the
same wild sense of revolt and protest! At last the hideous membrane was
loosened, the child got relief and lay back white and corpselike, but
with a pitiful momentary relaxation of the drawn lines on its little
brow. Robert stooped and kissed the damp tiny hand. The child's eyes
remained shut, but the fingers made a feeble effort to close on his.

'Mr. Elsmere,' said the nurse, a motherly body, looking at him with
friendly admonition, 'if you don't go home and rest you'll be ill too,
and I'd like to know who'll be the better for that?'

'How many deaths?' asked the Squire abruptly, touching Elsmere's arm,
and so reminding Robert of his existence. 'Meyrick spoke of deaths.'

He stood near the door, but his eyes were fixed on the little bed, on
the half-swooning child.

'Seven,' said Robert, turning upon him. 'Five of diphtheria, two of
fever. That little one will go, too.'

'Horrible!' said the Squire under his breath, and then moved to the
door.

The two men went downstairs in perfect silence. Below, in the
convalescent room, the children were capable of smiles, and of quick,
coquettish beckonings to the Rector to come and make game with them as
usual. But he could only kiss his hand to them and escape, for there was
more to do.

He took the Squire through all the remaining fever cases, and into
several of the worst cottages--Milsom's among them--and when it was all
over they emerged into the lane again, near the bridge. There was still
a crowd of children and women hanging about, watching eagerly for the
Squire, whom many of them had never seen at all, and about whom various
myths had gradually formed themselves in the country-side. The Squire
walked away from them hurriedly, followed by Robert, and again they
halted on the centre of the bridge. A horse led by a groom was being
walked up and down on a flat piece of road just beyond.

It was an awkward moment. Robert never forgot the thrill of it, or the
association of wintry sunshine streaming down upon a sparkling world of
ice and delicate woodland and foam-flecked river.

The squire turned toward him irresolutely; his sharply-cut wrinkled lips
opening and closing again. Then he held out his hand: 'Mr. Elsmere, I
did you a wrong--I did this place and its people a wrong. In my view,
regret for th