“Well, that did not save her; nay, it even brought on what she dreaded so much. Your nurse is plague-stricken, my dear, and lies ill unto death in the pest-house in Finsbury Fields.”
“Oh, dreadful!” exclaimed Leoline, while every drop of blood fled from her face. “My poor, poor old nurse!”
“Your poor, poor old nurse left you without much tenderness when she thought you dying of the same disease,” said La Masque, quietly.
“Oh, that is nothing. The suddenness, the shock drove her to it. My poor, dear Prudence.”
“Well, you can do nothing for her now,” said La Masque, in a tone of slight impatience. “Prudence is beyond all human aid, and so—let her rest in peace. You were carried to the plague-pit yourself, for dead, were you not?”
“Yes,” answered the pale lips, while she shivered all over at the recollection.
“And was saved by—by whom were you saved, my dear?”
“By two gentlemen.”
“Oh, I know that; what were their names?”
“One was Mr. Ormiston, the other was,” hesitating and blushing vividly, “Sir Norman Kingsley.”