ly delayed her departure for London for a few
weeks when she found that she could be of great service in the village
by going and lending a helping hand when the mothers got overdone with
nursing, for it was chiefly among the children of the place that the
fever found its victims. Twenty succumbed, and then there was a day or
two when no fresh case was reported.

Paul met the rector one morning and stayed to congratulate him on the
fact that the fever seemed to have run its course, that there had been
no death from it during the last few days, and apparently no fresh
cases.

"Poor little Jenny Weldon passed away this morning; I was with her when
she died," said the rector. Then came a long pause, and he cleared his
throat. "My Kitty was the last case; she was pronounced to have the
fever last night."

"Kitty!" echoed Paul, with a face almost as white as Mr. Curzon's own.
"Good Heavens! and I was the double-dyed idiot who brought that child
Jenny Weldon to the treat. Kitty probably caught it from her."

"That is quite impossible to decide," said Mr. Curzon, with a sad
little smile; "the outbreak has been almost simultaneous. But Kitty's
life is in God's Hands."

Paul turned away with an impatient exclamation; he had no word of
comfort to offer, for he had but little hope that a child so delicate
as Kitty would recover.

"If Sally could help in the nursing of her, or I in fetching any
delicacy the child could fancy, you know we are ready to help," he said.

"Thank you; you have always been good to her."

It was a feeble fight that little Kitty made for life, and did not last
many days. She had brief intervals of consciousness when she
recognized the father, who was never absent from her bedside except
when he visited the other sick children of his flock. All day long the
rectory was besieged by anxious inquiries for Kitty, who was better
known and more loved than any other child in the place; and Paul came
each day with some offering of fruit or flowers. But before the week
was over the passing-bell rang out, and a thrill of sympathy ran
through the village, and the neighbours looked into each other's faces,
and their kind eyes filled with tears as they said--

"That's little Miss Kitty gone home."

It was the phrase Mrs. Macdonald used as she brought in the breakfast
for Paul and Sally that morning, and the tears ran down her cheeks as
she said it.

"There may be some mistake, Mrs. Macdonald," said