ight and seemingly interminable thoroughfares. The long straight rows
of lamps, the snowy steps, the scrupulously clean streets, the signs over
the stores, were like the faces of old acquaintances, and at any other time
would have caused agreeable recollections; but the object of her visit
pre-occupied her mind, to the exclusion of any other and more pleasant
associations.

She ordered the coachman to take her to an obscure hotel, and, after having
engaged a room, she left her baggage and started in search of the residence
of McCloskey.

She drew her veil down over her face very closely, and walked quickly
through the familiar streets, until she arrived at the place indicated in
his letter. It was a small, mean tenement, in a by street, in which there
were but one or two other houses. The shutters were closed from the upper
story to the lowest, and the whole place wore an uninhabited appearance.
After knocking several times, she was about to give up in despair, when she
discovered through the glass above the door the faint glimmer of a light,
and shortly after a female voice demanded from the inside, "Who is there?"

"Does Mr. McCloskey live here?" asked Lizzie.

Hearing a voice not more formidable than her own, the person within
partially opened the door; and, whilst shading with one hand the candle she
held in the other, gazed out upon the speaker.

"Does Mr. McCloskey live here?" repeated Lizzie.

"Yes, he does," answered the woman, in a weak voice; "but he's got the
typers."

"Has the what?" inquired Lizzie, who did not exactly understand her.

"Got the typers--got the fever, you know."

"The typhus fever!" said Lizzie, with a start; "then he is really sick."

"Really sick!" repeated the woman--"really sick! Well, I should think he
was! Why, he's been a raving and swearing awful for days; he stormed and
screamed so loud that the neighbours complained. Law! they had to even
shave his head."

"Is he any better?" asked Lizzie, with a sinking heart. "Can I see him?"

"'Praps you can, if you go to the hospital to-morrow; but whether you'll
find him living or dead is more than I can say. I couldn't keep him here--I
wasn't able to stand him. I've had the fever myself--he took it from me.
You must come in," continued the woman, "if you want to talk--I'm afraid of
catching cold, and can't stand at the door. Maybe you're afraid of the
fever," she further observed, as she saw Lizzie hesitate on the door-step.

"O