"Jenny is away to Leith. Her brother's ship has just come in. The girl came home unexpectedly, and had to get the key of the house at the cottage. Everybody is down in the town celebrating the New Year, except a few infants, and an infirm old man, who noticed that she was ill and hailed me. Will you go in? There is no fire, nor comfort of any sort for the poor child. It is no work for you——"
Mona looked up with a curious light in her eyes.
"You don't really mean that," she said quietly. "If there were only a duchess on the road to-night, it would be her work. I suppose I may run to the cottage for some milk? I expect Maggie has eaten nothing all day."
His lips quivered slightly, in the relief of finding how simply she took it.
"God bless you," he said, as he took the reins. "I believe the girl will do well. I will be back as soon as I possibly can, and I will send the first woman I meet to your relief."
"No, you won't," she said gently. "I would rather stay all night than have a woman here of whom I know nothing. Go on. Good speed to your case!"
She fetched the milk, and then ran like the wind to the house. It was a lonely place at the best of times, and now it seemed bleak and damp and dreary,—a fitting home for the poor little singed human butterfly, who, in the hour of her agony, had taken refuge within its walls.
Mona was thankful there was so much to do, for her indignation burned like fire at the sight of that altered, chubby face. All honour to the stern and noble women who, by the severity of their views, have done so much to preserve the purity of their sex; but let us be thankful, too, for those who, like Mona, in time of need lose sight of the sinning woman in the injured suffering child.
In a very short time a bright fire was blazing in the grate; the bed had been arranged as comfortably as might be, and Mona was holding a cup of hot milk to the lips of the half-starved girl. Only an invalid knows the relief of having some one in the sick-room who, without fuss or questioning, quietly takes the helm of affairs; and poor little Maggie looked up at her comforter with the eyes of a hunted animal, which, bruised and bleeding, finds that it has run by chance into a haven of rest.
For some time Mona doubted whether the baby would live till Dr Dudley's return. It was such a puny little thing—a poor morsel of humanity, thrust prematurely into a cold and busy world that had no need of him. "He had better have died!" thought Mona, as she did all that in her lay to keep him in life; and, in truth, I know not whether the woman or the doctor in her rejoiced more truly when she saw that all immediate danger was past.