"Worse," she said.
Francis' face looked his sympathy.
"How is she worse?" he asked.
"She's been raving for two hours. Dr. Lane has sent for Dr. Howitt. Her temperature has never been so high."
"Is she in great—danger?"
Beatrice nodded. "They don't say so, but——" Her voice failed her.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Not a thing. The nurse is there, and mother and father don't leave her for an instant. She doesn't even need me. If there was anything to be done,—but to sit and wait is so awful!—I'm going down now to make a cup of tea for mother. She looks like a ghost."
"And so do you, poor little girl." He laid his strong brown hand over the small white one on the railing. Beatrice sat still for a moment, and then, laying her head on her arm, cried her heart out.
"I can't give her up," she sobbed wildly. "I can't! I can't! I never knew before what she was to me. And all this summer when she has been toiling away over her children and the weeds and the street, I have sat and criticised, and discouraged her. I have been so selfish, so small and so mean! Oh, I don't deserve to have Miss Billy, but if she lives, I'll love God all my life. I can't spare her now."