stick of wood, in the open fire-place, but it sent forth but a small
quantity of heat, and the room felt damp and chilly. On a narrow bed
drawn close to the fire lay the sick child, and beside it sat the mother
plying her needle steadily, and every now and then casting an anxious
eye upon her babe. She arose when Mr Maurice and Harry entered, and her
reception of the boy was truly affecting. She told again and again of
his following her the day before, and how kindly he had inquired if he
could do anything for her, and then bursting into loud sobs, and leaning
over the bed, she said nobody could do anything unless it was to cure
her baby. Mr Maurice took the hand of the little sufferer, but it was
burning hot, and the face, which was the day before pale, was now so
flushed that Harry could scarcely recognise it.

'He has a fever,' said Mr Maurice.

'A fever! oh don't say so,' shrieked the poor woman, 'it was of that his
father died--it is a cold, nothing but a cold! Oh, how could I be so
foolish as to take him out!'

What could Mr Maurice do, but soothe her, and promise to be the child's
physician? In a few moments she became calmer, and then she told him
that her baby had been failing for a long time--day by day she could see
that he grew poorer, but she could not tell why, till at last a cough
had come, and concluding that it was occasioned by a cold, she had given
the usual remedies, but without effect. The day before, having no one
with whom to leave him, she had taken him out, and the fever that ensued
was the result.

'Do you think I have killed my baby, sir?' she inquired mournfully; and
she looked so long and earnestly into Mr Maurice's face for an answer,