THE LITTLE OLD LADY.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 5279, 8 June 1895, Page 2

THE LITTLE OLD LADY.

[BT li. T. MEADE.] (The Woman at Home.)

I have been a private nurse for several years, and have had, of course, many advontures, both tragic and otherwise. Ido not- think, however, that anything ever thrilled mo more, I do not t . ink my sympathies were ever moro fully roused, and my sense of justice more stirred to its depths ban in the story which I am about to tell. When not engaged in my profession, I occupied rooms with another nurse in Baker Street. On a certain night, about a week before Christmas, 1 went to bed at my usual hour. I was just dropping asleep when my bell rang. ' I got up hastily, dressed myself, and went downstairs. I opened the hall door and found a gentleman standing on the steps. ' , "Does Nurse Lawrence live here?" he asked, "I am Nurse Lawrence," I replied. " Good " he answered. I have got a case for you. Can you come at once ? " "Are you a doctor?" I asked. " Yes, Dr Butler. I want a very good nurse in a great hurry ; it is for a child. I will wait until you are ready; how long will you keep me?" * ".Ten minutes," I replied. "Will you wait in this rodi-i ? " I threw open the door of a little parlour as I spoke. .

•?.N6,". replied Dr Butler, " there is a cab outtudo, .Xwill.sit in it until you come."

'■VI ran quickly upstairs. In .ess than ten minutos I rejoined the doctor, and we were driving rapidly away..

" Where are we going ??' I asked of him.

"Into Kensington," ho answered. My little patient is in a boarding-house in Yardsley Gardens.",

I did not know Yardsley Gardens, but refrained to ask any further questions with regard to its «act locality.

"I will describe the caso as we drivo along," laid* the doctor. "Your little charge is a boy of nine years old ; he has just recovered from a sharp attack of diphtheria, and to-day, I am sorry to tell ' you, shows unmistakable symptoms of paralysis. Ho is a motherless child, and his father is out a good deal I want you to take complete chargoofhim. If you require further help, you must get it, but I wish you io be reiponsible."

"Yes," I answered. "I am fond of nursing shildren," I continued after a pause.

"I have heard , so," replied Di* Butler, "and that is the reason I came to you. It is most important that the boy should have someone with him who understands his temperament. He is a highly strung, nervous lad, and I rather fancy tome people in the house have been playing- upon his weakened nerves. I don't like the place he is in at all and I shall be glad to get him away as quickly as possible. That, however is out of the question for the present."

The cab turned down a mews at this moment, tnd the next instant we drew up at .a tall house in Yardsley Gardens.

No gardens were here except in name; the nouses were .tall and narrow, somewhat oldfashioned in build, and dreary in the extreme.

As the doctor and I ascended the .stairs, I asked aim a question.

•^What is the child's name?" I asked. " Harold Earncliffe," he replied. "You said he was nine years old ?" "Yes." •Ms ■he the only child?" "Yea."

"Is his father, at home at present ?"

"No. The boy is altogether in the hands of lervknts, who, I fear, neglect him shamefully. In ihort, you are only just in time."

He opened a door on the third landing as he •poke, and brusquely entered a lavge room. I followed immediately behind him.

It waa past midnight, and the child ought to nave been asleep. The room ought to have been darkened, perfect and soothing silence should have been the order of the hour.

Instead of this we came upon a scene of heat and confusion. Two gas jets were flaring high; a huge fire was burning in tho grate; the little patient lay propped up on his pillows, looking round him. with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, while two women sat over the fire enjoying strong potations of whisky punch. One of them itaggered to her feet when she saw us, She was not tipsy yet, but she would probably soon have been so. She came up in a menacing way to tho ioctor. "Well, sir ? " she said in an impertinent voice. "Ob, *we were just settling for the night, and Master Harold is niuch better." "Go out of the room," said Dr Butler, angrily. " How dare you keep the child awake after the directions I have given you ? Go away at once-*take that woman with you."

"Oh no," piped a small voice from tlio bed, " don't let Georgina go away. She tells me about the little old lady. She brings me messages from her. I want Georgina. Don't send her away, please, please."

"Hush. Harold/ said the doctor "You shall see Georgina if you "still wish it in the morning, but hot no***.. This is the middle of the night, my little man, when birds and flowers and children ought to be asleep. See, I have brought you a nice nurse to look after you. Tou will be much better after she haamade you comfortable."

"I'm very hot now," said the boy. "and tho gas hurts my eyes. But Georgina promised to tell me another, story about the old lady when she had finished, her punch. I do want to hear it. Maylhearit?"

" To-mOrrow, my boy, to-morrow."

" Go away," continued the doctor, turning with Bashing eye 3 to the women. " I shall telegraph your conduct to Major Earncliffe if you stay another moment in this room. Take that stuff with you and go."

He pointed to tho table which contained the whisky and glassqs.

Something in his manner cowed the pair; they deported muttering. The boy's eyes followed them as they left the room. As soon as ever they had gone, I put out ono of the gases', aud turned the other down low. I then opened the window farthest from the child's bed. The room positively reeked with the smell of whisky and gas. Dr Butler stood near the mantelpiece. ' The nervous.' look in the boy's largo eyes was very apparent. . He was shivering all over, and looked like a child overcome with a strange mixture of nervous excitoment and mortal fear. I did not like his condition at all, and was most anxious to get him to myself. Dr liutler advanced towards the door, and beckoned mo to follow.

" Now." he Baid, when ho had got me on tho landing, "you have to keep those women out of the room at any cost."

" I will willingly do so if I can," I roplied; "but one of them ia the boy's nurse, is she not? " "Yes; but she is to be his nurse no longer."

"Is her name Georgina ? " I asked

"No; the nurse's samo is Lydia — Lydia Perkins, . I think. Georgina is in my opinion even a more daDgeroui woman than Lydia. She is servant to an old lady who lives on tho drawingfloor, and she and Lydia are great friends."

" Xhe old lady about whom the boy spoke ? "

" Tes he has beon raving about hei off and on all through hi 3 illness. Now I need not add any mere. I will be round tho first thing in the morning. Keep the door locked against those women, nurse. I will be responsible for the consequences." I prepared most willingly to obey. No words San express tjie dislike with which I had viewed tho pair. The neglected condition of tbe child was quite sufficient to explain the state of his nerves. It wm a wonder that under the circumstances he had survived such a terrible illness as diphtheria. Dr Butler went away, and I turned

the key in the lock and put it in my pocket with a strong sense of satisfaction. I then approached my little charge, and sitting down by him, begau to talk in a pleasant way. He wanted sleep dreadfully, but he was too excited for sleep at present. I knew that he must get accustomed to me, must rest a little on me, before his poor little strained nerves could be in the least soothed. I took his hand in mine, and felt his small but rapid pulse. Hia eyes were bright and had a hard look about them ; his little lips were hot and dry. I warmed some milk and made him drink it. I thon bathed his face and hands, and straightened the sheets. He looked at me with his great staring eyes all the time I waa attending to him.

" What's your name ? " he asked after a time.

" Nurss Lawrence," I answered.

"Lawrence," he repeated, "Laurio! I once knew a boy called Laurie ; he was a great friend of mine at school. May I call you Laurie ? "

" Yes," I replied, " and I will call you Harold : you see I have found out your name."

" Isn't Georgina coming here any more? " he

aßked,

"Not at present," I answered. "Nor Lydia?" " No, not at present," I said again. "And you aro going to take care of mo altogether, Laurie?"

" Yes, until you are well. I love little boys."

"Do you? Lydia says, 'drat that child,' and Georgina" — he shuddered ; a tremble ran through him. " Only I like to hear about the little old lady," he continued; "she's sweet, she's quite sweet."*

"I daresay I can find out about her," I answered. "Anyhow, we won't talk about anyone or anything more to-night. You shall tell me anything you like* to-morrow. Now, I'm going, to put out the light, aad you must go tojleep."

" Where will you sleep ? " "I'll sit here by you. I am not going to

sleep." « " Oh! then Lydia and Geogina can't come in," he said ; he gavo a sigh of absolute content, and the next moment his heavy eyes had closed in sweet Blumher.

The 'room was fresh and cool now. '.Not cold, of course, but cool. I shut the window after a little, and built up the lire; the child slept on. Once ,or twice as the night progressed, I heard tho handle of tho room door being softly turned, and then footsteps stealthily retiting. There was little or no noise made, however, and the boy never moved. In the morning he was decidedly better. When he opened his eyes and saw me sitting by his bedside, . he gave a smile, and said in a sweet little affectionate voice :

"I was dreaming about you, Laurie. I thought that you and I and the little old lady had gone away together, and that wicited Lydia and Georgina were left behind."

I longed to know why he called tho two women wicked, but did not like to excite him on the subject just then.

Whsn tho doctor came, he pronouncod the boy much better. As he was leaving, he called mo again to speak to him on tho landing.

" I have telegraphed to Major Earncliffe," he said, "and he will arrive here probably to-day. I have also seen Lydia and forbidden her to come to this room. The woman raves and storms, but nothing will induce me to allow her near the boy. Now the question is, can you keep her out? She s certain to make violent efforts to re-aseerfc ber authority, and if possible to get a "footing again in the sick-room."

I thought for a moment.

"I can scarcely do this by myself," I said. "The child seems to me to be in a most neglected state. He is half-starved. What he requires is good food and plenty of it. I want to be able to go out to get what is necessary, or at leas, to have a messenger who will bring m. in what I require. Sister Susan, who shares my rooms in Baker Street, has no case on at present. Perhaps she could come here during the daytime until the boy ia fit to be moved."

"That is a splendid thought," said Dr Butler. " I will go myself and fetch her. Between you both you will surely be able to manage to keep those she-wolves away from the boy."

In an hour's timo Sister Susan joined me. She was a capable woman of about forty; she had beon a nurse for a long time, and knew a great deal about illness. She thought the boy would do well, but said that his nerves had been cruelly played upon, and that he would probably not regain tone or strength until he was able to bo moved.

"I don't like those women," said Sister Susan to me. "I met the one they call Lydia on the stairs as I was coming up. She gave me a wicked glance. She has a bad face, a cruel face. She could make a. child's life a Tery hell." "Laurie come here," called little Harold from his bed. I went up to him at once. *• " Is Lydia coming back ?" he inquired, looking up at me in a proud, brave sort of way, which took my heart by storm. His eyes were so anxious, but his lips were so firm. "Is Lydia coming in soon ?" he inquired again. "No," I said, "she is not coming in at all today, Harold." "Oh," ho answered, with a long soft breath of content. " And Georgina? " he said after a minute. . "You won't see Georgina either to day," I answered. " I don't like Georgina," he said, with a little frown between his brows, " but I like her stories. She tells me about ths little lady — the little old lady. I love her you know. I love her dearly."

again.

" You must tell me about her," I said," taking his hand in mine. " Where does she live ? Who is sho? "

" She's the drawing-room lodger ; she's quite an important person ; she's so pretty ; she sits in her window, and whenever I go out I look up at her, and, she looks down at me, and nods and smiles. She wears a white cap, but not whiter than her hair, and she's generally knitting. She's a very busy little lady; she's never idle for a moment, but she's never too busy to nod and smile at inc. I love her dearly, dearly."

" What is her name ?" I asked.

"I don't know her name; she's just the littlo old lady. She sends me messages by Georgina — Georgina is her maid — and lately she has sent me chocolates, big boxes of chocolates. 'For the polite little gentleman on tha third floor/ she saya. Isn't ifc dear of her? Ido love her. I don't like Georgina, but I love her. I am very, very anxious to get a message from her to-day ; sho knows I am ill, and she sends mo a message every time Georgina comes into the room."

Harold's cheeks became quite flushed while he

spoke. I knew that I must humour him as much as possible. I told him that Georgina could not come back to him, but that I would try and get a message from the old lady some other way. Soon after that I went out, leaving Sister Susan

in charge. I bought a chicken, grapes, and some

other necessary nourishment for my little charge, and hurried home. The boy interested me immensely. As I was hurrying along on my way back to Yardsley Gardans, I suddenly remem-

bered his story about the little old lady, and it occurred to mo that on my way homo I would walk on the opposite side of the street and see if I could get a peep at her sitting in her window.

Yea, she was thore ; she wa3 there in her white cap, with her soft hair like floss silk surrounding her little old face ; sho had dark eyes, which she constantly used to look out of tho window. Her

eyes met mine. Perhaps she recognised who I

was by my drsss, for all of a sudden she nodded to me in the most friendly, eager, questioning

kind of way. I knew perfectly well that she wanted to ask me how Harold was, and I suddenly resolved to knock at her door on my way upstairs and tell her. Perhaps she would give me a me.sago to take him, and I thought how pleased the little fellow would be if this were the

case,

Accordingly, on my way upstairs I knocked at the drawing-room door. It was opened immediately, not by the little lady, but by Georgina.

" Now what do you want ?" she said in an impudent voice.

" I wish to tell your mistress that Harold is better," I said, firnjly ; " can I see her P"

"No, you can't," replied Georgina, "my mistress never sees strangers."

I heard a piping old voice within say some-

thing, but Georgina barred my way with her stout presence. "My mistress never sees strangers," »ho repeated. "I'll take her tbe mcasa<*. about Master Harold." She shut the door in my face, and locked ifc.

I went upstairs oppressed by a queer sense of anxiety. I did not like tho position that little lady was in at all. I was powerless to interfere, however, and I tried to banish the subject from my mind,

Major Earncliffe arrived that evening, and Lydia was dismissed without character, and at a moment's warning. Little Harold was put absolutely into the care of Sister Susan and myself, and he quickly repaid us for the change of treatment. He was an easily managed, sweet-natured child, and the only one subject on which he gave us the slightest trouble was the little lady. He talked of her morning, noon, and night ; she seemed to have got on his brain. If neither Sister Susan nor I managed to sco her in her window once at least during the day, he would turn his face to the wall and quietly weep.

"Ilovoher so dearly," ho would say; "she's so sweet, so sweet."

"But ycu never spoke to her in your life; you don't even know her name," said Si-tor

Susan.

"/That doesn't matter," heanßwercd; "she's my little lady, and she's so sweet."

One day I missed her from her place in the window. I did not tell this to Harold, hut when I met ray landlady I asked if the lodger on the drawiug-room floor was ill.

"Mot thafc I know of,", she answered, in a cold, reserved sort of voice.. I felt certain she wished to conceal something, and perhaps her manner, joined to my own nervous fears, partly prepared me for the next event in this queer story.

I was obliged to go down stairs late one evening, long after tho hour when most of the inmates of the house were $upposed to bo in bed. - The landlady had forgotten to send me up somo lemons for Harold, aud I went down to fetch them. I was surprised to see lights on tho drawing-room floor, and stood back for a moment, just in the recess of the hall landing above the drawing-room. I need not say that my heart leapt into my mouth, that my eyes grow suddenly dim, and that it was with the greatest effort I could keep myself from falling or screaming aloud.

The drawing-room door was wide open. Figures were moving about, and lights were burning. The nest moment four men walked upstairs, carrying a coffin between them. The coffin was of the cheap sort. I could sea that even in the distance. It was carried straight into the drawing-room, and then the door was closed behind tho men. They came out after a minute or two, having left the coffin behind them, acd went softly downstairs in their stocking feet and out of the house. The gas on the drawing-room landing was then immediately put out, and all was stillness and darkness.

I need sot say that Harold was obliged to do without his lemons that night. I tottered upstairs, trembling in every limb.

There was a room inside Harold's room, whore Sister Susan and I used to sleep. The room had two doors, one opening on to the landing, the other into Harold's room. I went there and throw myself on the bed.

" You must attend to fli9 child to-night," I said to Susan. She looked at me in some surprise, for it was not her turn to sit up ; but she was a woman of few words and much perception. She saw that I had received a shock of some sort, and, forbearing to question me, she went softly into the child's room.

People arc fond of saying that they have spent an entire night without a wink of sleep. This rer mark may, as a rule, be taken with a reservation, but in my case it was literally true. I did not close my eyes in slumber during that long and terrible night. I felt convinced that foul play had gone on down-stairs — in short, that the little lady had probably been murdered. I shuddered as I recalled Georgina's face. I trembled afresh as I remembered having seen Lydia about the premises that morning. The landlady of the house pleased me no better than these twowomen — in short, the sooner we were all our of thia terrible place, the safer for our lives. Major Earncliffo was again away, but I remembered with a sense of satisfaction that he intended to return on the following evening.

Harold was now so much better that Dr Butler did not come to see him every day. I did not wish to trouble the doctor if I could help it, over this matter. At the same time, I felt that something must be done. If tho old lady were ill, and had •died in tho ordinary way, why had her death been made such a mystery of? Why did not even the andlady acknowledge that she was ill ? Why did the coffin arrive in the middle of the night ? I felt convinced that that coffin was meant for her, and for no one else. It was under the ordinary size of an adult's coffin. Yes, there was foul play. I could swear it.

In the morning I got up feeling weak and haggard.

As soon as I could, I called Sister Susan into

the inner room.

" The little lady on the drawing-room floor is dead," I said.

" Merciful heavens !" exclaimed Sister Susan, " you don't say so. How do you know? How dreadfully bad you look. What will poor little Harry say?"

"I will tell you why I know that the lady is dead," I replied. "When I went downstairs to fetch the .'emons last night, i saw a coffin being carried into the drawing-room. There is no doubt that the coffin is intended for the little lady ; she is dead, and I do not for a moment believe she she has coa.o by her death by ordinary means. Of course, Sister Susan, this dreadful thing must be kept from Harry's ears."

"Of course," said Sister Susan. "Oh, we will manage that," she added. She then talked a little longer oyer the occurrence of the previous night, and I presently went downstairs. I had a basket on my arm. I was going out, ostensibly to buy provisions, but my real motive was to visit the nearest police station, and tell my suspicions to the police. On the stairs I met my landlady. An impulse made me stop her.

"So the drawing-room lodger is dead," I remarked.

"Bend?" exclaimed the woman with a start, which if it was assumed was well acted. " What in the world do you mean, Nurse Lawrence ? I havejust taken tho lady her breakfast, and she appears to be quite in her usual health."

" Then why was . a coffin taken into the drawing-room last night ?" I inquired.

" A coffin ? Good gracious me, what next ? You must be dreaming or mad, nurso ; there has no coffin been brought into this house since I have had anything to do with it. A coffin, indeed ! and taken into the drawing-room ! You must be off your head."

"I am not," I said. " I saw the whole thing with my own eyes. Four men came upstairs carrying a coffin, between twelve and one last night ; they brought it into the drawing-room, and left it there."

" Well," exclaimed the landlady, " if this isn't too much. Do I stand in pay own house and hear such awful things uttered ? I suppose you'll say next that poor Georgina has murdered her mistress. You are a queer lot, but seeing is believing. I suppose if you see the little lady, you'll believe she's alive ; come with me."

The woman was in a towering rage, and I could not perceive that Bhe was acting at, all. She went downstairs with me, opened the hall door, and crossed the street by my side.

" You can see my drawing-room windows from here," she said. " Look; now do you believe your own eyes ? "

I did look. I looked in dazed astonishment. There, just as calm as usual, in her usual pretty dress, with hei* soft white hair, and her quaint ■white cap, sat the little old lady. Her knitting was in her hands; she was bending over her work.

"There," said the landlady, "who was right? Now you'll know better than ogam to spread such infamous lies about my house."

" I see I was mistaken about the lady being dead," I roplied. "I am sincerely glad, sincerely glad to know that I am mistaken • nevertheless," I added, " I saw the coffin carried in."

The landlady gave me a withering glance; she would not condescend to waste any more words on me, but returned to the house.

I went off in a limp sort of fashion to perform my house-keeping duties. lam afraid 1 did not

think much about Harold's dinner on that occasion. " The little lady is alive, but a coffin haa bsori earned into the room," I kept murmuring to myself ; '* a coffin has been carried into the room ; what does it mean ? "

On my way home I looked up agiin at the drawing-room window. Yes, the lady was there; she waa still bending over her knitting. She did not look out as was her wont, however ; she gave nic no keen, bright glance out of her dancing dark eye 3; she kept looking at that tiresome knitting. I went upstairs and told Sister Susan what had occurred.

It was Christmas Eve, and Harold was excited about some presents which he was preparing. One of them was for tho little lady; it was a special and beautifully prepared Christmas card ; he was a clever little fellow, and he had illuminated it himself.

" I wonder what she'll think of it ? " he kept saying. " I wonder if she'll be glad— if she'll guess how very much I love her? She always calls me tho polite little gentleman when' she ends me a message. Shall I put ' From the spolite little gentleman to the little old lady,' on the Christmas Card, Laurie? " " Yc3, do," I answered. I gave him a pencil, and he wrote the inscription with great care.

AU through that day my nervous anxiety grew greater and greater. What did the coffin mean ? At last I felt so fidgety that as the evening broke I could not keep stifl. I stole softly out and crossed the road to see if the lady were stilVin the window. The blinds wero down now, and there wero lights in the room. I could sea her shadow quite distinctly against the blind; she was still Bending over ber knitting. I thought her attitude a little queer. I felt more uncomfortable than ever when I got back to my room.

It was eight o'clock at night, and Harold was getting tired and anxious to go to bed. Sister Susan began to undre3s him. A sudden idea darted through my mind.

" Look here," I said to the boy. " Give me your card, and I'll take it down to the little

lady."

" But you can't see her," aaid Harold, gazing up at me in surprise. "Georgina won't let anyone see her." ' '

" I daresay I can manage to see her," I replied, "Anyhow, give me the card." . .

He .gave it at once. Sister Susan raised her eyebrows and glanced at me. with an expression of interrogation. I said notbing. I seemed to he carried quite out of myself in a sudden passionate determination that, by hook or by crook, I would get inside that room. I went downstairs. On the way I met Lydia Perkins. What was Lydia doing in the house? She had been dismissed some days ago.

I walked past the drawing-room door and down to the dining-room

" Major Earncliffe had returned. I knocked, and a voice said " Come in." The Major was sitting over his. dinner. He was a powerfully built man of great height.

"Is anything wrong, nurse ? " he said, glancing at me in surprise. There was no servant in the room. I shut tho door and came up to him.

"Thero Is something very wrong," I said, " but not with little Harry. I want you to help me. I want you to come up with me to tho drawingroom," I then told him as briefly as I could the story of the coffin and my own unaccountable

fears,

"lam not a nervous woman," I said in conclusion. "My position as nurse must be my guarantee for that, but the horror which fills me now is, I am certain, justifiable, and I cannot rest another moment unless I find out what the mystery is."

To my relief, I saw that Major Earncliffe entered fully. into the gravity of the situation. While he was considering, there cam,! a knock at the door, and a brother officer of his, a certain Captain Giaham came in.

"Just in the nick of time," said the Major, "Now I believe we can manage. Sit down, Graham; we want your help."

In a dozen forcible words he told my story to the captain.

"What you, Graham, are to do is this," said Major Earncliffe in conclusion — "you are to stay in thi3 room, and listen with all your ears for the drawing-room bell. If.l ring it twice quickly, go at once forthe police. Now, nurse, lam at your

service." - \. We went upstairs. I knocked at the drawingroom door. After a little pause it was opened by Georgina. She did not expect to see me, still less Major Earncliffe, and in consequence opened the door wider than she would otherwise have done. She was a powerful woman, but she was no match for the Major. He put his hand on her shouldei*t pushed her aside, and dragged me with him into the room. I looked at Georgina. Her face turned not only pale, but green. Behind her stood Lydia. The door of the bedroom, which led into the drawing-room, was open. I rushed in, and saw a coffin on the bed. In the coffin lay the little lady, hei* eyes closed, her pretty face calm and pale.

"Here she is. She is really dead. I was right,"

I exclaimed.

'*' But what is the meaning of this ? " cried the Major. " There must be two old ladies; there is another sitting ia the window."

He strode tip as he spoke to the drawing-room window, and touched the little figure bending over its knitting. Then, indeed, a queer expression came over his face. The figure was a dummy, dressed up in the little old lady's clothes. It did not take the Major an instant to go and pull the drawing-room bell twice. At the same moment he turned the lock in the. door and put the key in his pocket. When he did this, the look of terror on the two women's faces cannot be expressed by any words of mine.

I gave them one ghnee, and then turned to where the lady lay. I put my hand on her forehead and looked at her attentively. I bent over her and listened.

Then I gave a joyful cry.

"I believe, I do believe, she is still alive," I exclaimed. "They hare drugged her, but they haven't quite finished her. Major Earncliffe, we must got her out of this room without a moment's delay." Major Earncliffe glanc'd towards the women. "Oh, never mind then, let them go," I aaid. " Anything to save her prteious life." " I vow they shan't escape, " said the Major, setting his teeth. " Nuise, I cannot leave this room. Are you strong enough to catry the little lady upstairs hy yourself?" "Yes, yes," I said; "yei, lean do it." He lifted her out of her coffin, and put her in my arms. I staggered to ihe door; he opened it for me, and locked it afterme. I went upstairs step by step, breathing lard, for the lady lay heavy against my breast. At last I reached my | own bedroom. I put her .n the bed and applied remedies. Harold must nit know at present. I : chafed her hands, I made aer sit up, I forced her to swallow somo strong c.ffee, which happened to be waiting for me in th« room. After a time i she opened her eyes. Yes. she was alive, butcher I staring eyes gazed at me vith a vacant expression. Yes, I had saved tho little lady's body, but was I too late to save her mind ? Had her mind fallen a victim to the agonies, she had lived through? I placed her in a chair by the open window, and talked to hor, and rubbed her hands, and kept on making her swallow spoonfuls of strong coffee. Bhe did exactly what I told her, but her smile was vacant, and not a word passed her lips. At last an idea came to me. I brushed her white hair and made her look pretty. I slipped a skirt of my own on her. nnd wrapped a white shawl round her shoulders. Then I went into the other room. " Harold," I said, " get up and come with me, The little old lady is in my room. I want you to kiss her; she would rather have a kiss from you than anything else in the world just now." " What did she think of my card ?" asked Harold, springing eagerly out of bed. I dressed him as quickly as I could. "She'll tell you about it another time," Isaid. " Come now, come nt once." I took his hand and led him into my bedroom. Sister Susan followed us in wonder. Poor Sister Susan could not help uttering a loud exclamation when she saw the little lady, but Harold made none. He walked slowly, in his pretty, deliberate fashion, up to where the lady eat. He looked into her dark eyes, dull with that vacancy of soul which had filled me with such a terrible dread.

"I am the polite little gentleman," he eaid. " You'd like me to kiss you, wouldn't you, sweet little lady?"

He went on his knees by her side, and put his arms round her neck.

She gazed earnestly at him ; sh.. wit tho warmth of his childish arms ; she .ooked with quivering lips and wondering startled eyes, at his sweet round face.

" Your are like my own little boy who died long, long, long ago," she said, and then she began to return his kisses passionately. He kept his arms round her and gave her many kisses from his rosy lips. Presently she began to cry quietly, with her white head on his breast.

I knew tbea that Harold had saved the little

lady's reason,

In the trial which followed, the landlady of the house wa3 proved to have been in league with tho wicked servants Georgina and Lydia. She was also arrested and tried, and the three are now undergoing penal servitude. Of course the little lady was very rich ; of course these women wanted her money. I was only just, only barely in time to save her. She is still alive, quite well, and very happy. The polite littlo gentleman lives with her, and I havo not the least doubt that when she leaves this world he will inherit her wealth; sho is devoted to him, and cannot bear him to be long absent from her side. She is very pretty, and just as sweet as Harold used to picture her to himself during the days wVen hs watched her sitting in the drawing-room window. Sho is also full of a gentle intelligence which is almost remarkable at her great age. On one point, however, she bears traces of tho shock through which she lived ; of the narrow escape which she had from the very jaws ot death ; she absolutely forgets the time when she sat and knitted by the drawing- room window ; she has no remembrance of that drawing-room. The whole terrible time is a blank to her. Providence has cast a merciful veil over that period of agony.