e of the babies, who was little
Tom's age, died. When it became evident that there was danger in this
case it is impossible to describe the sensations with which Lucy's brain
was filled. She could not keep away from the house in which the child
was. She sent to Farafield for the best doctor there, and everything
that money could procure was got for the suffering infant, whose
belongings looked on with wonder and even dismay, with a secret question
like that of him who was a thief and kept the bag--to what purpose was
this waste? for they were all persuaded that the baby was going to die.

"And the best thing for him, my lady," the grandmother said. "He'll be
better done by where he's agoing than he ever could have been here."

"Oh, don't say so," said Lucy. The young mother, who was as young as
herself, cried; yet if Lucy had been absent would have been consoled by
that terrible philosophy of poverty that it was "for the best." But Lady
Randolph, in such a tumult of all her being as she had never known
before, with unspeakable yearning over the dying baby, and a panic
beyond all reckoning for her own, would not listen to any such easy
consolation. She shut her ears to it with a gleam of anger such as had
never been seen in her gentle face before, and would have sat up all
night with the poor little thing in her lap if death had not ended its
little plaints and suffering. Sir Tom, in this moment of trial, came out
in all his true goodness and kindness. He went with her himself to the
cottage, and when the vigil was over appeared again to take her home. It
was a wintry night, frosty and clear, the stars all twinkling with that
mysterious life and motion which makes them appear to so many wistful
eyes like persons rather than worlds, and as if there was knowledge and
sympathy in those far-shining lights of heaven. Sir Thomas was alarmed
by Lucy's colourless face, and the dumb passion of misery and awe that
was about her. He was very tender-hearted himself at sight of the dead
baby which was the same age as his lovely boy. He clasped the trembling
hand with which his wife held his arm, and tried to comfort her. "Look
at the stars, my darling," he said, "the angels must have carried the
poor little soul that way." He was not ashamed to let fall a tear for
the little dead child. But Lucy could neither weep nor think of the
angels. She hurried him on through the long avenue, clinging to his arm
but not leaning upon it, hasteni