“And you’ll keep the child, and say nothing to nobody but she’s our own; won’t you, mother?” persisted Teddy.

“Yis, b’y, if it’s yer heart is set on it.”

“It is that, mother; and you’re the good mother, and it’s I always knowed, I mean knew it.  And will I bring home a doctor to the little sister?”

“No, Teddy; not yit.  Faix, an’ it’s hard enough to live when we’re well; but it’s too poor intirely we are to be sick.  Whin the time cooms to die, it’s no doctherin’ ’ll kape us.”

Teddy looked wistfully at the little burning face upon the coarse, clean pillow:  but he knew that what his mother said was true; and, without reply, he took up the parcel of clothes, and left the room.

All through the long day, Mrs. Ginniss, toiling at her wash-tubs, found a moment here and another there to sit upon the edge of the bed, and smooth her little patient’s hair, or moisten her glowing lips and burning forehead, trying at intervals to induce her to speak, if even but one word, in answer to her tender inquiries; but all in vain:  for the child already lay in the stupor preceding the delirium of a violent fever, and an occasional moan or sigh was the only sound that escaped her lips.

Toward night, Teddy, returning home an hour earlier than usual, came bounding up the stairs, two at a time, but, pausing at the door, entered as softly as a cat.

“How is the little sister now, mother?” asked he anxiously.

“Purty nigh as bad as bad can be, Teddy,” said his mother sorrowfully, standing aside as she spoke that the boy might see the burning face, dull, half-closed eyes, and blackening lips of the sick child, and touch the little hands feebly plucking at the blanket with fingers that seemed to scorch the boy’s healthy skin as he closed them in his palm.

Teddy looked long and earnestly,—­looked up at his mother’s sad face, and down again at the “little sister” whom he had taken to his heart when he first took her to his arms; and then, shutting his lips close together, and swallowing hard to keep down the great sob that seemed like to strangle him, he turned, and rushed out of the room.  Mrs. Ginniss looked after him, and wiped her eyes.

“It’s the luvin’ heart he has, the crather,” murmured she.  “An’ if the baby wor his own sisther, it’s no more he could care for her.  Sure an’ if the Lord spares her to us, it’s Teddy’s sisther she shall be, forever an’ aye, while me two fists hoold out to work fer ’em.”

An hour later, Teddy returned, conducting a stranger.  Rushing into the room before him, the boy threw his arms around his mother’s neck, and whispered hastily, in his broadest brogue,—­

“It’s a docther; an’ he’ll cure the sisther; an’ it’s not a cint he’ll be afther axin’ us:  but don’t let on that she’s not our own.”

Mrs. Ginniss rose, and courtesied to the young man, who now followed Teddy into the room, saying pleasantly,—­