"But I am not His child," half sobbed Lucy.
"His child you are, my dear little sister: His loving, obedient child, I hope you will be."
At this moment the dinner-bell rang. Rosa waited till Lucy could wash away the traces of her tears and smooth her hair, and then they went down stairs together. Mrs. Maxwell looked up with a smile as Rosa came in; her thoughtful deference was beginning to have its effect.
"Hurrah! for the small-pox!" shouted Harty, as Lucy came in. He had heard from his father that the danger was imaginary, and, forgetting his own fears, he quite despised Lucy for her fright.
"Come here, my little patient," said the doctor to the blushing child. "I don't wonder my pet was frightened: old Betsy ought to be ashamed for being so foolish. Poor Owen M'Grath could injure no one; his sorrow is his worst disease. You see I made out the name in your spelling, and I am obliged to my little girl for trying to write the message so exactly. Owen had as neat a little home as you could wish to see, but it is a sad, sad place now. His poor wife has long been ill with consumption; she died this noon, and there is no one to take charge of his little baby but his daughter, who is only as old as you are, Lucy."
"Can we not do something for them, father?" asked Rosa.
"How like her mother," thought the doctor. "Yes, dear child," he replied; "I will take you to see them to-morrow."
"May I go too?" asked Harty, eagerly.
The father smiled and nodded his head. "We will not leave little Lucy behind, either," he added, to her great delight; "that is, if she is well enough. My pet looks a little pale yet. You did well, Mrs. Maxwell, not to let her go out this morning."
Mrs. Maxwell gave a glance at Lucy, which made her drop her eyes.