cottage where she lived, to ask after her, I found
the door locked, and all the family out at work,
except this young creature, whose small voice came
quavering through a broken pane of glass in the
window. "I'm in bed with the fever. Mother's
gone a-gleaning. The door's locked, and you
can't get in." I could see the flushed little face
lying on the pillow; a teapot was placed within
the child's reach, out of the spout of which she
drank from time to time. We used to come and
talk to her through the broken pane, and to
hand her in little things to please her. At last,
she got well. But another child, of the same
age, a particularly sturdy little boy, was carried
forth into the harvest-field with the fever upon
him. There was no proper shelter at hand
where the child could be left; there was no
doctor or nurse at hand to explain nature's laws
to his parents. They laid their child down under
a hedge, while they went a-gleaning. There was
a hot sun and a cutting wind. The patient took
cold and died.

At the very same time there was a little boy in
the house where l was staying, lying ill of the very
same fever. He lay in an airy room, with his
mother watching by his side. Disinfecting fluid
was spread about the house. Bright fires burnt
in the grates, the polished floors were uncarpeted,
and fresh air blew through the open
windows. The physician's well-appointed
carriage stood at the door; and while he spoke
cheerful words to the little patient lying smiling
on his sheltered bed, the funeral bell began
tolling for the burial of the village child. Close
under the windows we could see the simple
funeral procession turning into the churchyard.
A small cofiin, carried by four village school-
boys; a father and mother, two little sisters
and a brother, sobbing as they followed it to
the grave. Through the open windows sounded
the old familiar words, "I am the Resurrection
and the Life."

We left the window, and turned back to the
bed. "The one shall be taken and the other
left."

If a homely, inexpensive little hospital had
been established in the village, this village child,
humanly speaking, need not have died.

HALF A MILLION OF MONEY.

"BY THE AUTHOR OF "BARBARA'S HISTORY."

CHAPTER LXXXVII. STILL IN PURSUIT.

DAVIS'S stables were soon found; also Davis
—Davis of the stable stably; all waistcoat, all
pockets, all wide-awake, with a wisp of spotted
cambric round his neck, a straw in his mouth,
and no legs to speak of. This gentleman—not
insensible to the attractions of her Majesty's
profile in low relief on a neat pocket medallion
—distinctly remembered supplying a fly on the
morning in question. It was his large green fly,
and he drove it himself. The gentleman desired
him to drive to the Great Western Railway
station. The lady was in deep mourning, and
looked as if she had been crying. When they
got to Paddington, the gentleman gave him half-
a-crown over and above his fare. The luggage
all belonged to the lady. A porter took it off
the cab, and carried it into the station. Davis
thought he should know the porter again, if he
saw him. He was a tall, red-haired man, with
only one eye. Did not hear it said to what station
the lady and gentleman were going. Was quite
willing, however, to go over to the Great Western
terminus, and do what he could to identify the
porter.

So Mr. Davis shuffled himself into a light over-
coat, accepted a seat in Saxon's Hansom, and was
forthwith whirled away to Paddington. The one-
eyed porter was found without difficulty. His
name was Bell. He remembered the lady and
gentleman quite well. The lady left her
umbrella in the first-class waiting-room, and he found
it there. He ran after the train as it was moving
away from the platform, but could not get up
with the carriage soon enough to restore the
umbrella. However, the gentleman came back
to London that same evening, and inquired about
it. Gave Bell a shilling for his trouble.
The luggage was labelled for Clevedon. He was certain
it was Clevedon, because he had labelled it with
his own hands, and remembered having first of
all labelled it Cleve, by mistake. Of all these
facts he was positive. The incident of the
umbrella had impressed them upon his memory;
otherwise he did not suppose he should have
retained a more distinct recollection of those two
travellers than of the hundreds of others upon
whom he attended daily. This testimony shaped
Saxon's course. He dismissed Davis,
recompensed Bell, and by two o'clock was speeding
away towards the west.

It was the down express, and yet how slowly
the train seemed to go! Leaning back in a corner
of the carriage, he watched the flitting of the
landscape and listened to the eager panting of
the engine with an impatience that far out-
stripped the pace at which they were going.
He counted the stations; he counted the
minutes, the quarters, the half-hours, the hours.
He had no eyes for the rich autumnal country.
He saw not the "proud keep" of Windsor
standing high above its antique woods; the silver-
grey Thames, with its sentinel willows and
wooded slopes; the fair city of Bath, seated amid
her amphitheatre of hills; or Bristol, gloomy with
smoke. All he thought of, all he desired to see,
all he aimed at now, was Clevedon.

Shortly after half-past five, he reached Bristol;
at half-past six he had arrived at his destination.
There were flys and omnibuses waiting about the
little station. He took a close fly, being anxious
to avoid recognition, and desired to be driven to
the best hotel in the place. There was but one
—a large white house with a garden, overlooking
the Bristol Channel. The day was waning
and the tide was high on the beach, as Saxon
stood for a moment among the flowering shrubs,
looking over to the shadowy Welsh hills far
away. The landlord, waiting at the door of the