"Nonsense!" said the Second Nurse; but later in the evening she brought
the purse, and set it on the table where the patient's eyes might rest
on it. For aught she could detect, they expressed no thanks, gave no
flicker of recognition. But the child had been watching them too, and
was quicker--by one-fifth of a second, perhaps.

It was half-past eight, and the sister turned low the single gas-jet.
She would retire now to her own room, change her dress for the
night-watching, and return in about twenty minutes. The door had no
sooner closed upon her than Tilda stretched out a hand. The sick woman
watched, panting feebly, making no sign. The purse--a cheap thing,
stamped with forget-me-nots, and much worn at the edges where the
papier-mache showed through its sham leather--contained a penny and a
halfpenny; these, and in an inner stamp-pocket a scrap of paper, folded
small, and greasy with handling.

Still peering across in the dim light, Tilda undid the broken folds and
scrambled up to her knees on the bed. It cost her a twinge of pain, but
only by standing upright on the bed's edge could she reach the
gas-bracket to turn the flame higher. This meant pain sharper and more
prolonged, yet she managed it, and, with that, clenched her teeth hard
to keep down a cry. The child could swear, on occasion, like a trooper;
but this was a fancy accomplishment. Just now, when an oath would have
come naturally to a man, she felt only a choking in the throat, and
swallowed it down with a sob.

On the paper were four lines, written in pencil in a cramped hand; and,
alas! though Tilda could read print, she had next to no acquaintance
with handwriting.