came forward to untie their own horses,
laughing loudly at the discomfiture of Bennet as they did so.

In the quiet of the early evening, when the modest list of boarders had
eaten of the fare which the tavern provided, with small consideration
of the profits to be made, Mrs. McVeigh put on her widow's bonnet, and
a shawl over her gaunt shoulders, and, leaving a parting injunction to
old Donald to tend to the bar during her absence, she set off down the
road to the Bennets'. The night was setting in darkly and suggestive
of rain, and the way was lonely enough to strike fear into the heart,
but the old tavern-keeper apparently had no nerves or imagination, so
confidently did she pursue her intention to see how fared the sick wife
of her troublesome customer of the afternoon.

Bennet met her at the door, and he held up his finger for quietness as
he made way for her to enter. He was sober now, and evidently in a
very contrite mood. He knew it was not for him that Nancy McVeigh had
come, and he expressed no surprise. "She be worse the night," he
whispered, hoarsely. Nancy shot a glance at him, half-pitying,
half-blaming, as she stepped into the dimly-lighted bedroom, where a
wasted female form lay huddled, with a crying baby nestled close beside
her. Two children in an adjoining bed peeped curiously from under the
edge of a ragged blanket, and laughed outright when they saw who the
visitor was.

"Go to sleep, dears," Nancy said, kindly, to hush their noisy
intentions.

"It's you, Mistress McVeigh?" a weak voice asked from the sick-bed.

"It is, Mary, and how are ye?"

Mrs. Bennet was slow in answering, so her husband spoke for her, and
his tones were tense with anxiety.

"She's not well at all, at all."

Nancy turned impatiently to Bennet and bade him light the kitchen fire.

"I've brought somethin' with me to make broth, and it's light food I'm
sure that ye're wantin', Mary," she explained.

As soon as Bennet's back was turned, Nancy took off her wraps and drew
a chair into the middle of the room.

"Give me the baby, Mary; yer arms must be weary holdin' it, and I will
see if I can put it to sleep."

One thing Mrs. McVeigh's widowhood had not spoilt, and that was her
motherly instincts in the handling of a baby, and the room seemed
brighter and more hopeful from the moment she began to rock, singing a
lullaby in a strange, soothing tone.

Mrs. Bennet gazed in silent gratitude for awhile, then she spok