On emerging into the fields, Hodges observed to his companion, “It is strange that I who daily witness such dreadful suffering should be pained by the gradual and easy decline of Amabel.  But so it is.  Her case touches me more than the worst I have seen of the plague.”

“I can easily account for the feeling,” groaned Leonard.

“I am happy to say I have prevailed on her, if she does not improve in a short time,—­and there is not the slightest chance of it,—­to try the effect of a removal to the country.  Her father also consents to the plan.”

“I am glad to hear it,” replied Leonard.  “But whither will she go, and who will watch over her?”

“That is not yet settled,” rejoined Hodges.

“Oh! that I might be permitted to undertake the office!” cried Leonard, passionately.

“Restrain yourself,” said Hodges, in a tone of slight rebuke.  “Fitting attendance will be found, if needed.”

The conversation then dropped, and they walked briskly forward.  They were now within a short distance of the pest-house, and Leonard, hearing footsteps behind him, turned and beheld a closed litter, borne by two stout porters, and evidently containing a plague-patient.  He stepped aside to let it pass, when Bell, suddenly pricking her ears, uttered a singular cry, and bursting from him, flew after the litter, leaping against it and barking joyfully.  The porters, who were proceeding at a quick pace, tried to drive her away, but without effect, and she continued her cries until they reached the gates of the pest-house.  In vain Leonard whistled to her, and called her back.  She paid no attention whatever to him.

“I almost begin to fear,” said Hodges, unable to repress a shudder, “that the poor animal will, indeed, be the means of discovering for us the object of our search.”

“I understand what you mean,” rejoined Leonard, “and am of the same opinion as yourself.  Heaven grant we may be mistaken!”

And as he spoke, he ran forward, and, followed by Hodges, reached the pest-house just as the litter was taken into it.

“Silence that accursed dog,” cried one of the porters, “and bid a nurse attend us.  We have a patient for the women’s ward.”

“Let me see her,” cried Hodges.  “I am a physician.”

“Readily, sir,” replied the porter.  “It is almost over with her, poor soul!  It would have saved time and trouble to take her to the plague-pit at once.  She cannot last many hours.  Curse the dog!  Will it never cease howling?”

Leonard here seized Bell, fearing she might do some mischief, and with a sad foreboding beheld the man draw back the curtains of the litter.  His fears proved well founded.  There, stretched upon the couch, with her dark hair unbound, and flowing in wild disorder over her neck, lay Nizza Macascree.  The ghastly paleness of her face could not, however, entirely rob it of its beauty, and her dark eyes were