d Lucy scarcely allowed even her
husband to see the deep, harrowing dread that was in her. By and by,
however, this dread was justified; she had been very anxious about all
the little patients in the village that they should not catch cold,
which in the careless ignorance of their attendants, and in the limited
accommodation of the cottages, was so usual, so likely, almost
inevitable. A door would be left open, a sudden blast of cold would come
upon the little sufferer; how could any one help it? Lucy had given the
poor women no peace on this subject. She had "worrited them out o' their
lives." And now, wonder above all finding out, it was in little Tom's
luxurious nursery, where everything was arranged for his safety, where
one careful nurse succeeded another by night and by day, and Lady
Randolph herself was never absent for an hour, where the ventilation was
anxiously watched and regulated, and no incautious intruder ever
entered--it was there that the evil came. When the child had shaken off
his little complaint and all was going well, he took cold, and in a few
hours more his little lungs were labouring heavily, and the fever of
inflammation consuming his strength. Little Tom, the heir, the only
child! A cloud fell over the house; from Sir Tom himself to the lowest
servant, all became partakers, unawares, of Lucy's dumb terror. It was
because the little life was so important, because so much hung upon it,
that everybody jumped to the conclusion that the worst issue might be
looked for. Humanity has an instinctive, heathenish feeling that God
will take advantage of all the special circumstances that aggravate a
blow.

Lucy, for her part, received the stroke into her very soul. She was
outwardly more calm than when her heart had first been roused to terror
by the death of the little child in the village. That which she had
dreaded was come, and all her powers were collected to support her. The
moment had arrived--the time of trial--and she would not fail. Her hand
was steady and her head clear, as is the case with finer natures when
confronted with deadly danger. This simple girl suddenly became like one
of the women of tragedy, fighting, still and strong, with a desperation
beyond all symbols--the fight with death. But Sir Tom took it
differently. A woman can nurse her child, can do something for him; but
a man is helpless. At first he got rid of his anxieties by putting a
cheerful face upon the matter, and denying