He took her indoors and bathed her hot forehead, and dried with his hard
old hand the tears that fell from eyes that a moment before had flashed
like a basilisk's.

Toward five o'clock that evening a knock came to the door of the
vicarage, and old Laird Fisher entered. His manner was more than usually
solemn and constrained.

"I's coom't to say as ma lass's wee thing is taken badly," he said, "and
rayder sudden't."

Greta rose from her seat and put on her hat and cloak. She was hastening
down the road while the charcoal-burner was still standing in the middle
of the floor.

CHAPTER VIII.

When Greta reached the old charcoal-burner's cottage, the little one was
lying in a drowsy state in Mercy's arms. Its breathing seemed difficult;
sometimes it started in terror; it was feverish and suffered thirst. The
mother's wistful face was bent down on it with an indescribable
expression. There were only the trembling lips to tell of the sharp
struggle that was going on within. But the yearning for a sight of the
little flushed countenance, the tearless appeal for but one glimpse of
the drowsy little eyes, the half-articulate cry of a mother's heart
against the fate that made the child she had suckled at her breast a
stranger, whose very features she might not know--all this was written
in that blind face.

"Is he pale?" said Mercy. "Is he sleeping? He does not talk now, but
only starts and cries, and sometimes coughs."

"When did this begin?" asked Greta.

"Toward four o'clock. He had been playing, and I noticed that he
breathed heavily, and then he came to me to be nursed. Is he awake now?
Listen."

The little one in its restless drowsiness was muttering faintly,
"Man--go-on--batter--toas."

"The darling is talking in his sleep, isn't he?" said Mercy.

Then there was a ringing, brassy cough.

"It is croup," thought Greta.

She closed the window, lighted a fire, placed the kettle so that the
steam might enter the room, then wrung flannels out of hot water, and
wrapped them about the child's neck. She stayed all that night at the
cottage, and sat up with the little one and nursed it. Mercy could not
be persuaded to go to bed, but she was very quiet. It had not yet taken
hold of her that the child was seriously ill. He was drowsy and a little
feverish, his pulse beat fast and he coughed hard sometimes, but he
would be better in the morning. Oh, yes, he would soon be well again,
and tearing up the flowers