Scenes of poverty and sickness are familiar now to many a good and fair woman, of whom it may be said in the words of the poet Lowell, that
"Stairs, to sin and sorrow known,
Sing to the welcome of her feet."
But few indeed were the high-born ladies a hundred and twenty years ago who ever penetrated the dark places where their suffering brothers and sisters lived and died in penury and want.
Class distinction was then rigid, and the sun of womanly tenderness and compassion had not as yet risen on the horizon with healing on its wings.
Thus the two wretched attics, furnished with the barest necessities of life—to which she ascended by dark, narrow stairs—was indeed a new world to Griselda Mainwaring.
She shrank back when the door of the room was opened, and turned away her head from the pitiful sight before her. The sick man was propped up on his miserable bed, the child kneeling by him listening to, and trying to soothe, his incoherent mutterings.
Leslie Travers went in first and touched the child's shoulder.
"I have brought the lady to see you, and to ask what she can do for you."
Instead of answering, Norah held up her hand as if to beg Leslie to be silent, and continued to stroke her father's long thin hands with one of hers, while with the other she pressed the rag of vinegar and water on his burning brow.
Presently the muttering ceased, and the breathing became more regular, and then Norah rose, and said in a low voice: