as if the comer could not wait, the door was opened, and Mary
Hodgson stood there as white as death.

"Mrs. Jenkins!--oh, your kettle is boiling, thank God! Let me have the
water for my baby, for the love of God! He's got croup, and is dying!"

Mrs. Jenkins turned on her chair with a wooden inflexible look on her
face, that (between ourselves) her husband knew and dreaded for all his
pompous dignity.

"I'm sorry I can't oblige you, ma'am; my kettle is wanted for my
husband's tea. Don't be afeared, Tommy, Mrs. Hodgson won't venture to
intrude herself where she's not desired. You'd better send for the
doctor, ma'am, instead of wasting your time in wringing your hands,
ma'am--my kettle is engaged."

Mary clasped her hands together with passionate force, but spoke no word
of entreaty to that wooden face--that sharp, determined voice; but, as
she turned away, she prayed for strength to bear the coming trial, and
strength to forgive Mrs. Jenkins.

Mrs. Jenkins watched her go away meekly, as one who has no hope, and
then she turned upon herself as sharply as she ever did on any one else.

"What a brute I am, Lord forgive me! What's my husband's tea to a baby's
life? In croup, too, where time is everything. You crabbed old vixen,
you!--any one may know you never had a child!"

She was down stairs (kettle in hand) before she had finished her
self-upbraiding; and when in Mrs. Hodgson's room, she rejected all
thanks (Mary had not the voice for many words), saying, stiffly, "I do
it for the poor babby's sake, ma'am, hoping he may live to have mercy
to poor dumb beasts, if he does forget to lock his cupboards."

But she did everything, and more than Mary, with her young inexperience,
could have thought of. She prepared the warm bath, and tried it with her
husband's own thermometer (Mr. Jenkins was as punctual as clockwork in
noting down the temperature of every day). She let his mother place her
baby in the tub, still preserving the same rigid, affronted aspect, and
then she went upstairs without a word. Mary longed to ask her to stay,
but dared not; though, when she left the room, the tears chased each
other down her cheeks faster than ever. Poor young mother! how she
counted the minutes till the doctor should come. But, before he came,
down again stalked Mrs. Jenkins, with something in her hand.

"I've seen many of these croup-fits, which, I take it, you've not, ma'am.
Mustard plaisters is very sovereign, put on the throa