"You never let us know you were ill," said the old woman.
"I could not do so," replied Judith, "and I don't know that I should have done if I could. I was nursing two sisters at a small house in Clerkenwell Close, and they both died in the night-time, within a few hours of each other. The next day, as I was preparing to leave the house, I was seized myself, and had scarcely strength to creep up-stairs to bed. An old apothecary, named Sibbald, who had brought drugs to the house, attended me, and saved my life. In less than a week, I was well again, and able to move about, and should have returned home, but the apothecary told me, as I had had the distemper once, I might resume my occupation with safety. I did so, and have found plenty of employment."
"No doubt," rejoined the old woman; "and you will find plenty more—plenty more."
"I hope so," replied the other.
"Oh! do not give utterance to such a dreadful wish, Judith," rejoined her mother-in-law. "Do not let cupidity steel your heart to every better feeling."
A slight derisive smile passed over the harsh features of the plague-nurse.
"You heed me not," pursued the old woman. "But a time will come when you will recollect my words."
"I am content to wait till then," rejoined Judith.
"Heaven grant you a better frame of mind!" exclaimed the old woman. "I must take one last look of my son, for it is not likely I shall see him again."
"Not in this world," thought Judith.