So it was settled, and Lucy started in the pony-carriage, carrying with her such things from the Parsonage storehouse as were thought to be suitable to the wants of the sick lady at Hogglestock. When she arrived there she made her way into the house, finding the door open, and not being able to obtain the assistance of the servant-girl in ushering her in. In the parlor she found Grace Crawley, the eldest child, sitting demurely in her mother's chair nursing an infant. She, Grace herself, was still a young child, but not the less, on this occasion of well-understood sorrow, did she go through her task not only with zeal, but almost with solemnity. Her brother, a boy of six years old, was with her, and he had the care of another baby. There they sat in a cluster, quiet, grave, and silent, attending on themselves, because it had been willed by fate that no one else should attend on them.
"How is your mamma, dear Grace?" said Lucy, walking up to her and holding out her hand.
"Poor mamma is very ill indeed," said Grace.
"And papa is very unhappy," said Bobby, the boy.
"I can't get up because of baby," said Grace; "but Bobby can go and call papa out."
"I will knock at the door," said Lucy; and, so saying, she walked up to the bedroom door, and tapped against it lightly. She repeated this for the third time before she was summoned in by a low hoarse voice, and then, on entering, she saw Mr. Crawley standing by the bedside with a book in his hand. He looked at her uncomfortably, in a manner which seemed to show that he was annoyed by this intrusion, and Lucy was aware that she had disturbed him while at prayers by the bedside of his wife. He came across the room, however, and shook hands with her, and answered her inquiries in his ordinary grave and solemn voice.
"Mrs. Crawley is very ill," he said, "very ill. God has stricken us heavily, but His will be done. But you had better not go to her, Miss Robarts. It is typhus."
The caution, however, was too late, for Lucy was already by the bedside, and had taken the hand of the sick woman, which had been extended on the coverlet to greet her. "Dear Miss Robarts," said a weak voice, "this is very good of you, but it makes me unhappy to see you here."
Lucy lost no time in taking sundry matters into her own
