Mrs. Merriman’s bell rang violently once, twice, and the lady laid aside her book, exclaiming:  
“Who can that be, so late as this? Half-past nine, and almost bedtime. Run, Michael. Though I thought you’d gone upstairs before now. It takes the maid so long to answer. There it is again. Hurry. Dear, dear! I hope it isn’t a telegram.”
 
“I’m going, Mary,” called the lad to the maid, as he rushed to the door.
 
Peter stood outside, bareheaded and looking almost white in his terror.
 
“For mercy’s sake, Massa Michael, is there a woman in this house?”
 
“Of course. Lots of them. Grandmother, Mary, waitress, Samanda—Why?”
 
[124]“Our little Miss Josephine. I reckon she’ll die.”
 
“Die, Peter? That little girl? What’s the matter?” cried Michael.
 
“Goodness knows, I don’t. She can’t hardly breathe, she can’t. Massa Joe’s sent for his doctor and his doctor he’s out, and we don’t have no faith in them others round the square, and—Will some of your women please just step in and take a look at our poor little missy?”
 
Michael back into the , exclaiming:
 
“Grandma, that little girl next door is awful sick. Peter’s frightened most to death himself. He wants some of our women to go in there and help them.”
 
“Our women! Of what use would they be, either of them? I’ll go myself. Ring for Mary, please,” said the old lady, rising.
 
The maid appeared, and was directed to bring:
 
“My shawl and scarf, Mary. I’m going in next door to see a sick child. You stay right[125] here in the hall and keep the up, so that there’ll be no delay if I send in for you or anything needed. Yes, Michael, you may go with me to help me up and down the steps, though you ought to be in bed. Yet come. It must be something serious for Mr. Smith to thus far forego his reserve.”
 
Uncle Joe was waiting at the head of the stairs as Mrs. Merriman them, with that activity upon which she prided herself, and asked:
 
“Are you in trouble, neighbor? What is it?”
 
“The little girl. I don’t know whose even. Came to me, an express ‘parcel,’ and I haven’t traced the blunder, found the right—no matter. This way, please. I’ll explain later.”
 
There was no trace of the gout left in the gentleman’s movements as he preceded his neighbor to Josephine’s room, where the child lay , , and clutching at her own throat in an agony of terror.
 
One glance, and Mrs. Merriman’s shawl was tossed aside, and she had lifted the little sufferer in her arms, observing:
 
[126]“Not even undressed! How long has she been like this?”
 
“For several hours, Peter says, but growing worse. I’ve sent for the doctor, but he hasn’t come. He”—
 
She interrupted him with:
 
“Send for another. The nearest possible. It’s croup. Short and quick, usually. Michael, run in for Mary. Now, Peter, heat some blankets. Find me her night-clothes. Warm that bed. A foot-tub of hot water. Any oil in the house? Epicac? Any other household remedies?”
 
“There’s the medicine for the gout, madam,” suggested Mr. Smith.
 
“Oh, bother the gout. That’s nothing. This is—serious. There, Mary, lend a hand. Michael, run for Doctor Wilson. Hurry. If you can’t find him, then the next one. There are seven of them around this square, perched like vultures, seeking whom they may . As a rule, I ignore the whole crowd, but I’m thinking of this little one’s mother now. Hurry, lad,” directed Mrs. Merriman.
 
[127]Mr. Smith stood silent, helpless, and admiring. This was a gentlewoman of the old school, such as he remembered his own mother to have been, who was not afraid to use her own hands in ministering to the suffering and who wasted no time in questions. Every movement of her wrinkled but still firm fingers meant some to the little child, whose brown eyes roamed from one to another with a silent, pitiful appeal. In a twinkling, it seemed, Josephine was undressed, reclothed in soft, warm garments, her chest anointed with the relaxing oil, and a swallow of hot milk forced between her lips. Then Michael was dispatched to the nearest drug store and brought back a dose of the old-fashioned remedy Mrs. Merriman had used for her own little children. But she had hardly time to administer it before one of the physicians summoned had appeared, and to him she resigned the direction of affairs. His first order was that Mr. Smith should go below to his own comfortable library and remain quiet, adding:
 
[128]“I’ll report as soon as your child is better, sir.”
 
“She isn’t my child, doctor, but do you care for her as if she were. Spare no expense. She must not, she must not die upon my hands. I’d no right to retain her as long as I have, but—but— Don’t let her die, doctor, and you’ll save me from .”
 
“Go below, Mr. Smith. Peter, attend your master. There are enough of us here, and this little lady will soon be all right. It’s croup only, and— What has she been eating lately?”
 
“What has she not? How can I tell? But one thing I know, she ate no dinner to-night,” answered the host.
 
“So much the better. Now, Mr. Smith”—a wave of the hand in the direction of the suggested that the master of the house was from the sickroom.
 
Daylight was breaking when at last the doctor led Mrs. Merriman down the stairs and to her own home, leaving Mary and Peter on watch, and a speedy return, with[129] the assurance that all danger was now past. At the door of the library the old lady paused and looked in. Mr. Smith still sat in his chair, and seemed as wide awake as she was , and she advised him:
 
“Go to bed, neighbor. The little one is all right again. We’ve had a for it, but she’s pulled through. Go to bed and get some rest. I’m really sorry for you that this uninvited trouble has come upon you, and will help you share it, so far as I may. But, doubtless, we’ll all see why it was allowed, before we’ve done with it.”
 
He returned, enough:
 
“For one reason, it may be, madam, to render me more just and tolerant to my neighbors. You have laid me under great”—
 
But she checked him, saying:
 
“Beg pardon, under nothing at all. It was the little child for whom I came, and if I have served you, too, why so much the better. Good morning.”
 
She went at once, leaving him to reflect:
 
“To go to bed at daylight! When ever did[130] I such a thing? But I will. Though I wonder if I am quite right in my mind. The idea of one small child upsetting two such households, all for the sake of a sled-ride! Hmm. Hmm. Peter! Here, Peter. I’m for bed at breakfast time! After an hour or two of rest I’ll set about finding that mi............