"Who was that, Miss Lucy?" called Betsy.
"An Irishman with a queer name: he says he lives by Bridget O'Brady's," was the reply.
"Oh! dreadful!" shouted Betsy. "Why, Miss Lucy, they've got the small-pox in all them dirty little houses; you've ketched it for certain. Go, take off every rag of clothes you've got on, and throw them into the tub there in the yard: I don't know who'll wash 'em. I am sure I should not want to touch 'em with a broomstick."
Poor Lucy, pale and trembling, ran up stairs and did as Betsy had advised. Even in the midst of her fright she could not help thinking that she was glad it was her calico, not the favourite silk, that she happened to have on, since she must thrust it into the water, to lie there till some one should dare to remove it.
The happy birds were still singing about the pretty cottage, and the trees were waving in the sunshine, but Lucy did not see them; her hands were pressed tightly over her eyes, and she rocked to and fro, thinking of all the horrible stories she had heard about the disease which Betsy said she had "ketched for certain."
"I shall be very ill," she thought, "and who will dare to nurse me? Perhaps I shall die; and if I get well, my face will be all marked, so that nobody will like to look at me. I wonder if Rosa would be afraid to sit by my bed, if nobody else would stay with me. I should hate to see her face all pitted. How badly I should feel if she should take the small-pox from me. Perhaps I shall give it to her if I see her now." At this last thought, Lucy ran into her own little room. There she sat sobbing until church was out. She forgot that there was a Friend with her, in that quiet room, who could have given her comfort, if she had called on Him in her trouble.
CHAPTER IX.
THE KING AND HIS WEAPONS.
Rosa and Harty were scarcely out of the church door before he began, "Oh! Rosa, did you see how grand Madam Maxwell looked, when she moved for you to take the end of the pew? It was as much as to say, 'I suppose, little miss, you think you ought to sit here, but you are very presuming.' I would have taken it if I had been in your place. It made me mad to see her settle herself so satisfied, when you refused."
"Fie, Harty!" answered Rosa; "Mrs. Maxwell is a great deal older than I am, and it is far more suitable that she should have the most comfortable seat. I should be sorry if my coming home interfered with her in any way. She has been most faithful in taking charge of the house since—since—" since our dear mother died, Rosa would have added, but her eyes filled and her voice failed her. The familiar scene in the church had brought her lost mother freshly before her, and she well remembered when they last trod that same path together.