He made her no answer, but went to look at the coughing boy, who had been in bed for a week with bronchitis.

“You’ve never been and got in Westall’s way again?” she said anxiously.  “It’s no good my tryin’ to get a wink o’ sleep when you’re out like this.”

“Don’t you worrit yourself,” he said to her, not roughly, but decidedly.  “I’m all right.  This boy’s bad, Minta.”

“Yes, an’ I kep’ up the fire an’ put the spout on the kettle, too.”  She pointed to the grate and to the thin line of steam, which was doing its powerless best against the arctic cold of the room.

Hurd bent over the boy and tried to put him comfortable.  The child, weak and feverish, only began to cry—­a hoarse bronchial crying, which threatened to wake the baby.  He could not be stopped, so Hurd made haste to take off his own coat and boots, and then lifted the poor soul in his arms.

“You’ll be quiet, Will, and go sleep, won’t yer, if daddy takes keer on you?”

He wrapped his own coat round the little fellow, and lying down beside his wife, took him on his arm and drew the thin brown blankets over himself and his charge.  He himself was warm with exercise, and in a little while the huddling creatures on either side of him were warm too.  The quick, panting breath of the boy soon showed that he was asleep.  His father, too, sank almost instantly into deep gulfs of sleep.  Only the wife—­nervous, overdone, and possessed by a thousand fears—­lay tossing and wakeful hour after hour, while the still glory of the winter night passed by.

CHAPTER II.

“Well, Marcella, have you and Lady Winterbourne arranged your classes?”

Mrs. Boyce was stooping over a piece of needlework beside a window in the Mellor drawing-room, trying to catch the rapidly failing light.  It was one of the last days of December.  Marcella had just come in from the village rather early, for they were expecting a visitor to arrive about tea time, and had thrown herself, tired, into a chair near her mother.

“We have got about ten or eleven of the younger women to join; none of the old ones will come,” said Marcella.  “Lady Winterbourne has heard of a capital teacher from Dunstable, and we hope to get started next week.  There is money enough to pay wages for three months.”

In spite of her fatigue, her eye was bright and restless.  The energy of thought and action from which she had just emerged still breathed from every limb and feature.

“Where have you got the money?”

“Mr. Raeburn has managed it,” said Marcella, briefly.

Mrs. Boyce gave a slight shrug of the shoulders.

“And afterwards—­what is to become of your product?”

“There is a London shop Lady Winterbourne knows will take what we make if it turns out well.  Of course, we don’t expect to pay our way.”