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DEAR Lucy was very, very ill; so was Mary, the servant; and my mother was still confined to her bed with the chronic disease which had so long afflicted her. What I should have done without our kind neighbour, Mrs. Wake, I really cannot tell; but she did wonders, for she took all the responsibility of nursing off my hands, and was so prompt and energetic, and yet so gentle, and she so efficiently seconded the doctor's opinions and carried out his directions, that, in the course of a day or two, things began to wear another aspect. With kind and matronly tender

MAY, 1867.

F

ness, she insisted upon my taking proper rest, and not exposing myself to the dreaded infection more than was necessary; while, at the same time, she spoke such encouraging words as inspired me with hope. Strange that, even then, I could not, or would not, lay aside my prejudices; but submitted to the infliction (as I should have termed it) of Mrs. Wake's presence, because I could not, in common decency, decline her help, and bid her take her departure.

I believe that my parents also would have preferred that the help had been rendered by almost any one else; for they both of them shared in my prejudices against our new neighbours. Mrs. Wake must have been aware of this, for my mother never expressed a wish to see the self-constituted nurse; and though my father, in a blunt kind of way, expressed his thanks to her for her extraordinary charity, he, as far as he could, avoided her. The perception of this, however, made no difference in our kind friend, who, like a true sister of mercy, continued her self-denying attendance at the bedside of the fever-stricken patients.

But if Mrs. Wake was treated with constrained courtesy by my father, and by me with cold civility, there was one who better appreciated her kindness. This was my sister Lucy, who soon became accustomed to her new attendant; and, without knowing by what means Mrs. Wake had obtained access to her chamber, received the attentions with affectionate gratitude and confidence. lt was "dear

nurse," as she called Mrs. Wake, who could gently raise her throbbing head, without causing additional pain, and could smooth the pillow so as to give some temporary ease. It was "dear nurse "who could persuade her to swallow the nauseous draughts which were to make her well, but which before she had petulantly refused to take. It was "dear nurse who whispered hope and comfort to her, when no one else could do it; and it was "dear nurse who, when Lucy began to amend, spoke loving words about the good Physician of souls, and the fatal disease of sin from which he alone could deliver, which brought tears of mingled grief and gladness to my sister's eyes.

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I knew all this afterwards; but, at the time, I only felt or fancied with angry jealousy that Mrs. Wake was monopolizing Lucy's affections; and the more I thought of this, the stronger grew my concealed dislike to our kind-hearted and Christian neighbour.

In two or three weeks the danger was over, and our old farmhouse began to resume its wonted aspect. The servant's attack of fever had been comparatively slight, and she was the first to show signs of convalescence. At her own request she was then taken to her mother's cottage in a neighbouring village. My mother, too, had partially recovered from her less dangerous illness, and was able, though with pain and difficulty, to move out of her chamber, and sit up for a few hours in the adjoining room. By this time, too, the panic which had caused our home to be dreaded and avoided as a pest-house had so far subsided that we could obtain the help we needed. There was one drawback to this, however; this was the delicate and fragile state in which Lucy still remained.

"She is a very tender plant, Miss Foster," said Mr. Woodman, the doctor, to me one day. "Her late illness has left her deplorably weak. She ought to have change of air as soon as possible."

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Change of air, sir ?"

"A complete change of air. You must send her to the seaside. She will never get strong again while she remains here. Indeed, I will not answer for consequences unless some precautions are taken."

"But, doctor, you told me that Lucy was out of danger more than a week ago," I said, with a good deal of perturbation.

"Out of immediate danger from fever, certainly, because the fever was gone; but there may be remote danger, notwithstanding; and if she does not pick up strength somehow, there will be danger. I think you understand me, Miss Foster."

I did understand him. I had known instances in which patients recovered from fever had sunk into the grave with slow decline; and I had feared this very thing with regard to Lucy. But what could I do? For even supposing that the change of air so earnestly recommended by the outspoken medical friend would be effectual in removing the danger we feared, the poor girl could not be sent unaccompanied to seek it. And who could go with her? Not I; for my hands were more than full at home. Not our

mother; for she required nursing as much as Lucy did.

I was in deep distress, for I loved my sister very dearly; and when the doctor had taken his departure, I broke out into an agony of tears.

"I see what it is, my dear; but pray do not distress yourself so very much." It was Mrs. Wake who said this. For the second time she had found me in a paroxysm of grief, and it vexed me. It seemed almost as though she were a spy upon me, I thought.

I wiped the tears from my eyes hastily, and looked angrily, I am sure, at the intruder; but she would not notice this.

“I know what it is," she went on; "for Mr. Woodman has been speaking to me since he left you, and he sent me to advise with you."

"If you know why I am troubled, you know very well also that all the advice in the world will be of no use to comfort me," I said, ungraciously. And then, my grief returning, I wrung my hands despairingly, regardless of the presence of the person I so much disliked. "My poor sister! my darling Lucy!" I sobbed.

The kind woman sat down by my side, and took my hand in hers. "I know it all," she repeated; "Mr. Woodman tells me, what indeed I have seen for some days, that your sister must be removed. You cannot accompany her, and you know of no one who can, and time is precious. It is this that troubles you." She waited a moment for my reply; but it did not come, so she went on.

"You must trust me, my dear. Why should you not trust me? Who should Lucy have with her but her nurse, you know? Let me be her travelling companion and nurso and friend all in one. I will be ready to go with her tomorrow if she can be ready by then; and I will take care of her, be sure. Indeed, a change will do me good too; and I know Hastings very well, for I was there for some weeks only a few years ago. So the thing is settled, isn't it, my dear friend?”

And so the thing was settled; for Mrs. Wake had such a kindly peremptory way that there was no such thing as refusing her offer. Indeed, since she had made the offer, it would have been folly to refuse, I thought. And yet I was angry-angry with Mrs. Wake for her disinterested generosity; angry with my parents for thanking her for her friendly self-denial; angry with darling Lucy for being so glad as she was when she knew who was to be her companion; and angry with myself for being angry.

Two months passed away; we had heard from time to time, very frequently indeed, that Lucy was getting on

charmingly. Her appetite had returned, so had her blooming looks, so had her strength. We had heard how she was able now to ramble over the hills for hours at a time without fatigue, and that the tenderness of her lungs, which we had so feared would ripen into consumption, was yielding to medical treatment and the milder climate of that watering-place. It was Mrs. Wake who wrote all this with such kindly interest; and in my sister's briefer notes there was so much evident happiness and elasticity of spirit, and so much artless thankfulness expressed regarding "dear Mrs. Wake," who was everything to her that a mother could be," that while we were glad to know that Lucy was going on so satisfactorily, our jealousy was strongly roused. Who was Mrs. Wake, that she should be robbing us of poor Lucy's affections in such a way? we asked ourselves. My dear mother, especially, was troubled that another should have stepped into her place; forgetting that but for our kind neighbour, we should, in all probability, have been sorrowing over darling Lucy's hopeless decline, if not over her grave.

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Well, two months and more passed away, and then the travellers returned home-Lucy to our old farmhouse and Mrs. Wake to The Grange. Lucy was all we had been led to hope. The threatening symptoms had passed away, and her health was completely restored. Be sure that we were pleased at this-pleased also to find that her affection had not been alienated from us as we had feared. But though we acknowledged this, our jealousy of Mrs. Wake's interference was not removed; and this jealousy was rekindled when, on more than one occasion, our neighbours at The Grange were scornfully or slightingly alluded to, and Lucy almost indignantly-certainly with much warmth-vindicated her friend from the aspersions cast upon her. She could not forget her kindness, she said, and she hoped she never should forget it; and it was too bad-cruel-in me (for it was I who had spoken) to say such hard things of a person to whom we all, and she herself especially, were under such obligations.

And then came a discovery which filled us all with indignation, not only against Mrs. Wake, but also against dear Lucy.

When our Lord and Saviour was on earth, he forewarned his disciples that they must expect persecution for his sake and the gospel's. He told them that one of the results of

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