It was to Seth Dumbrick a pleasure, as well as a matter of conscientious duty, to play the part of schoolmaster to the children with faithfulness and regularity. Scarcely an evening passed but instruction was given to Sally, who, quick in this as in other things, proved herself the aptest of scholars. Before she had been two years in her new home Sally could read tolerably well, and could write, after a fashion; and it was about this time that the education of the Duchess of Rosemary Lane was commenced. Commencing with Sally at the very beginning of things--the Creation--Seth travelled with her through Genesis, and so confounded her with the unpronounceable names of the generations of men, that she timidly entered a protest against them, saying they hurt her mouth; which, being taken in good part by her schoolmaster, induced him of an evening to open the Bible at random, and impart instruction from any chapter he chanced to light upon. But the Biblical knowledge they thus gained was not allowed to sink into their minds in its undefiled state. Seth adulterated it with his comments and opinions, as other dogmatists would have done with such an opportunity before them. Treating the stories as though they were stories in an ordinary book, he robbed the Bible of its spiritual halo. This was wise; that was pretty; nothing was inspired. Seth's nature was tender and compassionate in a human way, but his religious principles would have shocked the orthodox church-goer. Sally, aware that he derived pleasure in hearing himself speak, was the more attentive listener of the two, and frequently simulated an interest which she did not feel; often, indeed, while he dilated upon ancient prophets and Jewish kings, her thoughts were running upon patched frocks and pinafores, and holes in stockings, and the thousand-and-one other domestic worries with which her young life was constantly filled.

She would have been content to have gone on in this way all the years of her life; not so the Duchess. Her nature was one which yearned for excitement; and she was happier in the streets than in the home Seth Dumbrick had given her. As she grew, her beauty ripened, and, with every penny which Sally could beg or borrow or earn spent upon her personal adornment, she moved among the usually sad streets and their residents like a bright flower; and as she grew and bloomed, those among whom she spent her days became prouder and prouder of her. Even the grown-up people petted and flattered her, and spread her fame into other streets and other neighbourhoods which could not boast of a Duchess. She was no trouble to her guardian, except that she developed the propensity of wandering away, and absenting herself for hours, to the distress and misery of Sally, who was never happy when her idol was out of her sight. It never occurred to Seth that there was a dangerous want in the child's life, the want of womanly companionship and womanly counsel and tenderness. The child had Sally, and Sally in Seth's eyes was worth a thousand women; and besides, the lonely life he himself had led precluded the possibility of such a thought causing him disturbance.

So things went on until the Duchess of Rosemary Lane was seven years of age, when an event occurred which brought sorrow into Seth Dumbrick's household. The child suddenly sickened and fell ill.

It was Sally's custom to rise early, immediately after Seth himself had risen and had left the cellar, dressing herself quietly, so as not to disturb her darling, who was generally asleep. Sally, after gently and tenderly kissing the Duchess's pretty face, busied herself with putting the place in order, lighting the fire and preparing the breakfast. Then she would wake the Duchess, assist her to dress, and, breakfast being over, would proceed cheerfully with her household duties. Going to the child's bedside on this morning, Sally found her languid and weak, and disinclined to rise. Sally ran in alarm to her guardian.

"I think the Duchess is ill," she said, with quivering lips.

Seth immediately accompanied her to the child's bedside.

"Aren't you well, Duchess?" he inquired.

The Duchess opened her eyes, looked vacantly at him, and turned on her side.

"Best let her keep abed," said Seth, placing his hand on the Duchess's forehead, which was hot and dry; "she's caught cold maybe; she'll be all right to-morrow."

Among the Duchess's acquaintances in Rosemary Lane was a cousin of Betsy Newbiggin, the vendor of liquorice-water. He was a lad of about the same age as the Duchess, and between the two a friendship warmer than ordinary had sprung up. A week before the indisposition of the Duchess, Betsy Newbiggin, hailing her, informed her that Cousin Bob was "took bad," and could not get out of bed; and the following day Betsy Newbiggin said that Cousin Bob was "took worse, and would the Duchess go and see him?" Apart from the circumstance that the Duchess was fond of Bob, the opportunity of going to see somebody who was ill abed was too alluring to be neglected, and the Duchess and Betsy went to Bob's house, and were admitted to the sick chamber.

"Hush!" said the mother to the Duchess. "Don't make a noise. He's been a-talking of you all night."

"In his sleep?" inquired the Duchess, not displeased at this mark of attention on Bob's part.

"Half-asleep and half-awake I think he's been," replied Bob's mother. "I can't make it out. If he ain't better to-morrow I'll have to call Dr. Lyon in."

"Shall I go for him now?" asked Betsy Newbiggin, whose sympathies were not entirely confined to her trade in liquorice-water.

"No," said Bob's mother, "I must speak to father first. If Dr. Lyon comes he'll have to be paid."

The Duchess looked about the room. Bob was in bed, seemingly asleep. By the side of the bed was a hen canary in a cage so hung that when Bob opened his eyes (supposing he did not turn round) they would light upon the bird. The Duchess, standing by the bed, leant over Bob; and Bob, waking at that moment, said, as though he had just been indulging in a long conversation on an interesting subject and this was the outcome of it:

"Mother, if I die, give the Duchess my bird."

These words produced a shock. Betsy Newbiggin began to tremble, and the Duchess's heart beat more quickly.

"What nonsense is the boy chattering about!" exclaimed Bob's mother, patting the pillow and smoothing the bedclothes, and striving in this way to hide the agitation produced by the boy's request.

Bob appeared not to hear his mother's remark, and proceeded:

"You'll take care of the bird, Duchess, and think of Bob sometimes?"

"Oh, yes, Bob," said the Duchess.

"Then I don't mind. I'll think of you sometimes too, Duchess."

The Duchess pondered and presently asked, "How will you do that, Bob?"

"Do what, Duchess?"

"Think of me when you're dead."

"I'll be able to. Mother told me so. I shall be up there."

"Oh," said the Duchess, following the direction of Bob's eyes, unconscious of his meaning.

"There now, get along with you," said Bob's mother to the two girls, "or the boy'll never have done with his nonsense."

"You'll come and see me to-morrow, Duchess?" said Bob, as the girls were leaving the room.

"Yes," promised the Duchess, with a backward glance at the bird, which was now an object of more than ordinary interest to her.

For four days the Duchess paid a visit to Bob, upon whom Dr. Lyon was then attending. The doctor met her on the fifth day, and forbade her to come again, saying something about fever, which the Duchess did not understand. Two days after that she herself was taken ill. Sally did not leave her; the Duchess lay quiet until the afternoon, when she suddenly asked Sally how Bob was.

"Oh, my!" cried Sally, clasping her hands. "Bob's got the fever. You ain't been to see him, have you?"

But the Duchess had already forgotten her inquiry, and seemed to fall asleep before Sally's reply could reach her understanding. Seth Dumbrick came down every half-hour to look at his child, and grew so uneasy about her that he went for Dr. Lyon. This was in the evening, and Sally peered anxiously into the doctor's face as he felt the Duchess's pulse.

"I was afraid of it," said the doctor to Seth, "when I saw her at the boy's house. She's caught the fever. This is not the best place for a child to fight through an illness. We might manage to get her into the hospital."

"No, oh, no!" cried Sally; "don't let her be took there!"

"We can take care of her here," said Seth. "I shouldn't like to lose sight of the child."

"Very well. And are you going to nurse her, Sally?"

"Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir," said Sally, whose face had suddenly assumed a pinched expression. "I'll stop up with her day and night. I won't take my clothes off till she's better."

Dr. Lyon gave her a kind look and a kiss, and, promising to send in some medicine, took his departure. Then commenced an anxious time. The fever assumed a dangerous form, and for days the Duchess's life was in danger. Never till now had Seth Dumbrick realised how deeply he loved this child of his adoption. He wandered in and out of the cellar a hundred times a day, meek but fretful, with gentleness, but not with resignation. He and Sally had changed places; she was the strong, reliant soul in their humble home, and the old man looked to the child for support and consolation.

"If our angel dies, Sally," he said, "I shall never know happiness again."

Sally averted her face from him to check the weakness that threatened to overcome her. She knew full well that she needed all her strength for the work she was performing; the instinct of devoted love--which needs no teaching to bring it into flower--had instilled wisdom into the child's heart.

"Some kinds of knowledge come to a man late in life," he continued softly; "since you and our darling have been with me I've learnt something that I was ignorant of. I'd read of it, not quite in an unbelieving way, but with the sort of doubt upon me that a story writ to amuse a child might bring. Since then I've known what happiness is."

"Did you never know before?" asked Sally wistfully.

"Never before, my child," he answered, huskily.

"Daddy," said Sally solemnly, "you mustn't make me cry. I ain't got time for it. There's the beef-tea to git ready, and the arrerroot----"

"You must compel that child to take rest," said Dr. Lyon to Seth later in the day, "or she'll break down. Human nature's limited, as a certain friend of mine used to say."

"I tried to persuade her," said Seth, "last night to go to bed, but she wouldn't; she cried and said it'd be easier for her to die than to sleep."

"She must be made to sleep," said the doctor. "If you come round to my place Ill give you something that will conquer her. She's a pearl, and must not be allowed to kill herself."

In accordance with the doctor's instructions Seth at midnight desired Sally to lie down on his bed; but Sally stoutly refused. Finding that his arguments were not strong enough to convince her that rest was necessary, he produced a paper written by Dr. Lyon to the effect that unless Sally Chester slept for four hours that night he would not come to see the Duchess again.

"So you see," said Seth, "you will hurt the Duchess by being obstinate."

"But you can tell Dr. Lyon that I've been asleep," persisted Sally.

"When you haven't?" interrupted Seth, with a touch of his old humour. "O, Sally, Sally! would you teach me to tell lies at my time of life? Come now, my dear, be good and reasonable. I'll watch by our treasure till you wake up; I know you wouldn't trust her with anybody else."

"No, that I wouldn't; and if she asks for me you'll call me at once?"

"Yes, you may trust me, Sally."

With that Sally yielded, and, with small persuasion, drank the draught prepared for her.

"I'll go in five minutes," she said, sitting on a stool by the bedside, and gazed lovingly on the sleeping Duchess.

"All right," said Seth, who was sitting on a chair close to her; "rest your head on my knee, dear child."

With a grateful sigh, Sally obeyed, and clasped Seth's hand, which was lying with light touch on her neck.

Thus, with tired eyes watching the Duchess's face, she remained for two or three minutes, when the narcotic she had taken overpowered her, and she sank to sleep. Seth raised her softly in his arms, and placed her in his bed, covering her up warm, and kissing her before he resumed his seat at the Duchess's bedside. The child had been peculiarly restless all the evening, but was now in a calmer state. For an hour Seth kept his watch faithfully, and without moving from his seat; but some anxiety with reference to Sally caused him to step softly to her side.

Sally was in a deep sleep; her fingers were tightly interlaced, and her face wore an anxious expression, but she was at rest. The strangeness of the situation the silence which at such a time so powerfully asserts itself, and the eloquent lesson of love and devotion he saw before him had their due effect upon Seth Dumbrick's mind, and he held his hand before his half-closed eyelids with the air of a man to whom new and strange aspects of life had unexpectedly presented themselves. He was not long thus occupied; he was startled from his musing by a word uttered with singular clearness--a sacred word never before heard in that dim dwelling-place. "Mamma! mamma!" cri............