"And here," continued Betsy, producing from under her frock a birdcage with a canary in it, "here's poor Bob's bird, and it's got to be give to the Duchess, and she's got to take great care on it. Them's Bob's words. She's got to take great care on it."
Betsy would have proceeded, for she was glib of tongue, but Seth incautiously moved a step towards her, and she and her companions scampered off in great haste, with the fear of fever in their hearts.
"Well, well," muttered Seth, who at any other time would have derived much amusement from the interview and its termination, "human nature's not such a bad thing after all."
Bob's bird was hung by the Duchess's bed, but when during the day the child, in a lucid interval, said tearfully as she looked at it, "Bob's dead, then; I must think of him," Seth, who did not know of the lad's death, regarded the bird as a bird of ill omen. But it puzzled him to discover how, by merely gazing at the bird, the Duchess knew of Bob's death. "She saw her mother last night," he muttered; "are there really spirits? and can she see things?"
With unwearying patience and devotion Sally performed her task of nursing the child whose life was dearer to her than her own, and the most ineffable delight she had ever experienced was on the day that Dr. Lyon told her that the Duchess was out of danger. All her sadness vanished on the instant, and she stepped about humming softly to herself, to many different airs, "She'll soon git well; she'll soon git well!" That was also the happiest day in Seth's life; and out of pure gratefulness of heart, he took a walk in the fields, and gazed on the evidences of Nature with feelings of reverence and thankfulness.
When he returned home, a surprise awaited him. There was Sally's mother, who, having learnt by letter of the Duchess's illness, had obtained a short holiday for the sole purpose of coming to Rosemary Lane to kiss Sally, and help her nurse the child for a few hours. Sally's face was wreathed with smiles, and her step was lighter and her manner more cheerful than they had ever been before. Harmony and affection sweetened the air, and made the common room as bright as a palace.
"I have been growing very old lately," said Seth to Mrs. Chester, as he stopped and kissed the Duchess, who languidly returned the caress, "but from this day I intend to grow young again. We've had a hard time, but the lesson, when it ends as this one's happily doing, is a good un, I think, and makes people better instead of worse."
He spoke with tender gaiety, and was for the moment an entirely different Seth Dumbrick from the Seth Dumbrick whom Mrs. Chester knew in former years. But he relapsed into his older self very shortly afterwards, and now that the danger was over, the old manner reasserted itself.
Mrs. Chester was compelled to return to her duties early in the morning, and Seth accompanied her to the coach. She had not forgotten her old neighbours, and had found time on the previous evening to run round and shake hands and exchange friendly greetings with this one and that one, especially with Dr. Lyon, who had proved himself her true friend when most she needed one. On their way to the yard from which the coach was to start, Seth related to her the incident of the Duchess calling out to her mother in the dead of night, and the impression it made upon him.
"One would have thought," said Seth, "coming to you as young as she did, that she could have no remembrance of such things."