close, hot grasp, under which his victims burn and faint and wither . . . and his other name is Fever. Since mother and Dolly and little Daisy went away a fortnight ago, four little children, two young girls, and one house-mother have died, so quickly, so mysteriously, that lo! they seemed to be here one moment and gone the next. Mother had no idea that fever was in the village when she went, or she would be in fear about the children, and I have not written to tell her—she so seldom has a holiday, and she would come straight back. Nurse says these things are not to be run away from, and that the boys will do better to stay where they are; and Silverbridge village is more than a mile away, so we are not in the midst of the danger. A terrible pang seizes me as I look down on Wattie's unconscious face, and think that even now the phantom hand may be creeping out of the darkness into the light to touch him, my angel of consolation, who is the one pure and perfect thing my life contains. I lay my hand on his head: it is cool; on his cheek, on which lies the exquisite tint that his mother used to wear (that she has lost so completely lately, whether from pain of mind or body I cannot tell), and that is cool and fresh too.
This child, with his bold, beautiful looks, with his father's eyes and his own winning, lovable ways, is the delight of my days; he is himself and my lost lover in one. It is Paul who looks at me out of the splendid, wilful brown eyes; Paul who lurks in the haughty curves of the little mouth, and smiles at me with all the old resistless magic from these baby lips; and to these he adds his fresh, unsoiled young heart and words, his eager, quick love and childlike trust; and over all is the innocence that only those who have loved very young children can tell of.
I take out my watch—six o'clock, and the nurse ought to have fetched Wattie at five, he should be in bed by now; she is both tiresome and stupid. I am wondering what can have become of
