"I'm hungry, and if I go home mammy'll beat me, sure."
"No, she won't, Jack,—not when I tell her about the kind lady. Come, go with me."
"Take this and buy a cake," exclaimed Mr. Lambert, thrusting some silver pieces into Nanny's hand.
Not waiting for any thanks, he strode off in the opposite direction, muttering, "Old fool! Just like you! Meddling, always meddling."
After using his handkerchief vigorously, he went on: "What business is it of mine, if she dies to-day? I don't care. Yes, that's a lie: you do care, you old sinner! You only say that because you're so hateful,—you know you care. You'll never see another like her. There!"
[CHAPTER XIII.]
ANNIE'S LETTER.
THE third week of Marion's sickness there came a crisis and hope. Yes, it was evident to all there was hope now, where fear had prevailed. The doctor's mouth, which had been so firm and rigid, relaxed; and there was a suspicion of a smile. Hepsey's eyes were less watery, James opened and shut the outer door in a jubilant manner, proud of being the one to say to the anxious inquirers,—
"The doctor begins to hope."
On Annie Leman's pale face had come beams of light, which made her beautiful. Scarcely conscious of her own action, she went forward to the physician, caught his hand and pressed it in both hers.