send her an application, but, "Miss Schomberg," said he, "sleep is what
she wants; she tells me she has had no rest since the accident occurred.
What is to be done?" "Can you not send for a neighbour, Miss Webster, or
some one to attend to your household, and to nurse you too. If you worry
yourself in this way you will be quite ill."

Poor Miss Webster was ill, she knew it; and having neither neighbour
nor friend within reach, she did what was very natural in her case, she
took up her handkerchief and began to cry. "Oh, come, Miss Webster,"
said Emilie, cheerfully, "I will get you to bed, and Lucy shall come
when the shop is closed, and to-morrow I will get aunt Agnes to come and
nurse you. Keep up your spirits."

"Ah, it is very well to talk of keeping up spirits, and as to your aunt
Agnes, there never was any love lost between us. No thank you, Miss
Schomberg, no thank you. If I may just trouble you to help me to the
side of my bed, I can get in, and do very well alone. _Good_ night."
Emilie stood looking pitifully at her. "I hope I don't keep you, Miss
Schomberg, pray don't stay, you cannot help me," and here Miss Webster
rose, but the agony of putting her foot to the ground was so great that
she could not restrain a cry, and Emilie, who saw that the poor sufferer
was like a child in helplessness, and like a child, moreover, in
petulance, calmly but resolutely declared her intention of remaining
until Lucy could leave the shop.

Having helped her landlady into bed, she ran down-stairs to try and
appease the indignant lodgers, who protested, and with truth, that they
had rung, rung, rung, and no one answered the bell; that they wanted
tea, that Miss Webster had undertaken to wait on them, that they were
_not_ waited on, and that accordingly they would seek other lodgings on