"That's what Master Bertie cried for the very day he was taken ill. It's the kitten he saw in the village, Miss," said Hannah.
"Bertie shall have kitty," said Frances, decidedly. "Missy will fetch her."
"Yes, she's big now, her mother won't cry," he said, as if not quite satisfied that she would not.
It had come on to rain, since the morning but what cared Frances for that; she scarcely stayed to snatch her hat and cloak before she was hurrying through it. What cared she for the rain or anything else? Her whole soul was with Bertie—the child who through her means was dying, and yet had clasped her neck so lovingly as she bent over him dismayed and appalled at the ravages illness had made in his sweet face.
There was only Matthew in the little parlour as she entered the cottage.
"You'd better not come in, Miss," he said "no offence, Miss, but my sister-in-law's been ill with the fever these days past."
"It can make no difference now," she said, bitterly, "that little boy I brought here only ten days ago is—is dying of the fever he caught here."
"Lord save us! Miss, dying?" said Matthew regretfully.
"He has just asked for the kitten he saw here. Will you let him have it? It may be," she said despairingly, seeing he hesitated, "only—only for a day, or for—a few hours, you would never have the heart to refuse a child's last wish." In days gone by she would have abused him for the hand he had had in causing poor Bertie's illness, and her misery. But it was different now.
"No, Miss, you're right, I haven't the heart to. What's the kitten's life worth next to the young master's. Here take it and welcome; though what the Missus'll say when she finds it's gone, and the old un a howling about the place I don't know, but there, it can't be helped," said Matthew philosophically, as Frances wrapped the kitten up carefully in her cloak, and hurried away.