g by hearing Nancy cry out, "Run for
the doctor, Peter! Run for the doctor! Missus is taken worse."

I slipped into my clothes, and was off like a shot, without asking a
question, or even looking into mother's room.

I rang the night-bell, for no one was up. At last the servant opened
the door, and said she would call her master.

Mr Jones soon appeared. He had been paid regularly, and when he saw me
he was the more ready to come. Eager as I was to get back, I did not
like to run ahead of him; and, to do him justice, he exerted himself to
walk as fast as his breath would allow him.

He asked me several questions; then I told him that mother had been
again out bum-boating.

"Bad--very bad. I told her not to go. A relapse is a serious matter,"
he remarked, panting and puffing between his sentences. "However, we
must try what can be done."

Mary met us at the door.

"Mother has been breathing very hard since you went, Peter," she said,
"but she is quite quiet now."

The doctor's face looked very serious when he heard this. He hurried
into the room.

"I thought so," I heard him remark to Nancy. "I could have done nothing
if you had sent for me hours ago. The woman is dead."

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What shall I do?" cried Nancy, sobbing bitterly.

"The sooner you let any friends the children may have know what has
happened the better, and then send for the undertaker," answered Mr
Jones. "The boy is sharp--he'll run your errands. I can do no more
than certify the cause of death."

He hurried away without bestowing a look at Mary and me, as we stood
holding each other's hands, unable as yet to realise the fact that we
were orphans. He had so many poor patients that he could not afford, I
suppose, to exercise his compassionate feelings. Even when Nancy
afterwards took us in to see mother's body, I would scarcely believe
that she herself had been taken from us.

I will not stop to speak of Mary's and my grief.

At last Nancy, her eyes red with crying, sat down, with her hands
pressed against her head, to consider what was to be done.

"Why, I ought to have sent for him at once!" she suddenly exclaimed.
"Peter, run and find Tom Swatridge, and tell him that poor missus has
gone."

I needed no second bidding, and, thankful to have something to do, I
started away.

On reaching the Hard, where I expected to find old Tom, I heard from
some of the watermen that he had gone off with a fare to Gospor