"What is that that she's nursing? Lord
bless me! Can that be a child?" exclaimed
Mr. Nelson.

"A child in the fever," replied Fleming.

"Lord bless me!—to see legs and arms hang
down like that!" exclaimed the gentleman:
and he forthwith gave the woman a lecture
on her method of nursing—scolded her for
letting the child get a fever—for not putting
it to bed—for not getting a doctor to it—for
being a gipsy, and living under an alder
clump. He then proceeded to inquire whether
she had anybody else in the tent, where her
husband was, whether he lived by thieving,
how they would all like being transported,
whether she did not think her children would
all be hanged, and so on. At first, the woman
tried a facetious and wheedling tone, then a
whimpering one, and, finally, a scolding one.
The last answered well. Mr. Nelson found
that a man, to say nothing of a gentleman,
has no chance with a woman with a sore
heart in her breast, and a sick child in her
lap, when once he has driven her to her
weapon of the tongue. He said afterwards,
that he had once gone to Billingsgate, on
purpose to set two fishwomen quarrelling, that
he might see what it was like. The scene
had fulfilled all his expectations; but he now
declared that it could not compare with this
exhibition behind the alders. He stood a long
while, first trying to overpower the woman's
voice; and, when that seemed hopeless, poking
about among the rushes with his stick, and
finally, staring in the woman's face, in a mood
between consternation and amusement:—
thus he stood, waiting till the torrent should
intermit; but there was no sign of intermis-
sion; and when the sick child began to move
and rouse itself, and look at the strangers, as
if braced by the vigour of its mother's tongue,
the prospect of an end seemed further off than
ever. Mr. Nelson shrugged his shoulders,
signed to his companions, and walked away
through the alders. The woman was not
silent because they were out of sight. Her
voice waxed shriller as it followed them, and
died away only in the distance. Moss was
grasping Fleming's hand with all his might
when Mr. Nelson spoke to him, and shook his
stick at him, asking him how he came to play
with such people, and saying that if ever he
heard him learning to scold like that woman,
he would beat him with that stick: so Moss
vowed he never would.

When the train was in sight by which Mr.
Nelson was to depart, be turned to Fleming,
with the most careless air imaginable, saying,

"Have you any medicine in your house?—
any bark?"

"Not any. But I will send for some."

"Ay, do. Or,—no—I will send you some.
See if you can't get these people housed
somewhere, so that they may not sleep in the
swamp. I don't mean in any of your houses,
but in a barn, or some such place. If the
physic comes before the doctor, get somebody
to dose the child. And don't fancy you are
all going to die of the fever. That is the way
to make yourselves ill: and it is all nonsense,
too, I dare say."

"Do you like that gentleman?" asked Moss,
sapiently, when the train was whirling Mr.
Nelson out of sight. "Because I don't—not
at all."

"I believe he is kinder than he seems, Moss.
He need not be so rough: but I know he
does kind things sometimes."

"But, do you like him?"

"No, I can't say I do."

Before many hours were over, Fleming was
sorry that he had admitted this, even to
himself; and for many days after he was
occasionally heard telling Moss what a good
gentleman Mr. Nelson was, for all his roughness
of manners. With the utmost speed,
before it would have been thought possible,
arrived a surgeon from the next town, with
medicines, and the news that he was to come
every day while there was any fear of fever.
The gipsies were to have been cared for; but
they were gone. The marks of their fire and
a few stray feathers which showed that a
fowl had been plucked, alone told where they
had encamped. A neighbour, who loved her
poultry yard, was heard to say that the sick
child would not die for want of chicken broth,
she would be bound; and the nearest farmer
asked if they had left any potato-peels and
turnip tops for his pig. He thought that was
the least they could do after making their
famous gipsy stew (a capital dish, it was said,)
from his vegetables. They were gone; and if
they had not left fever behind, they might be
forgiven, for the sake of the benefit of taking
themselves off. After the search for the
gipsies was over, there was still an unusual
stir about the place. One and another
stranger appeared and examined the low
grounds, and sent for one and another of the
neighbouring proprietors, whether farmer, or
builder, or gardener, or labourer; for every
one who owned or rented a yard of land on
the borders of the great ditch, or anywhere
near the clay-pits or osier beds. It was the
opinion of the few residents near the Station
that something would be done to improve the
place before another year; and everybody
said that it must be Mr. Nelson's doings, and
that it was a thousand pities that he did not
come earlier, before the fever had crept thus
far along the line.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

For some months past, Becky had believed
without a doubt, that the day of her return
home would be the very happiest day of her
life. She was too young to know yet that it
is not for us to settle which of our days shall
be happy ones, nor what events shall yield us
joy. The promise had not been kept that she
should return when her father and mother
removed into the new cottage. She had been
told that there really was not, even now