"I've brought two candles," said Mrs. Wheaton. "They're heasier
managed hon a 'ot night," and she soon had one burning on the table
and another on the mantel. "I vant to see vat's to be done," she
continued, "because I must give yer a 'arty lift him a jiffy and
be back to my children hagain." Then going to the sick woman she
took her hand and felt her pulse. "'Ow do yer find yerself, mum?"
she asked.

"Oh, I'm much--better--I shall--get well now," the poor soul gasped,
under the strange hallucination of that disease which, although
incurable, ever promises speedy health to its victims.

"That's a splendid; that's the way to talk," cried Belle, who had
been oppressed with the fear that the woman would die, and that
she in some sense would be to blame. "Clara, this is sister Millie
that I told you about," and that was all the introduction the two
girls ever had.

"Vy didn't you send yer mother to a 'ospital?" Mrs. Wheaton asked,
joining the girls at the table.

"Don't say 'hospital' so mother can hear you. The very word would
kill her now, for there's nothing on earth she dreads more than
that they'll separate us and send her to a hospital. I've sometimes
thought it would have been best, and then it seemed it would kill
her at once, she was so opposed to it. That we might keep together
and to buy her delicacies I've parted with nearly everything in
the room, as you see," and it was bare indeed. A bed from which the
element of comfort had long since departed, two rickety chairs, a
pine table, a rusty stove, and a few dishes and cooking utensils