All this time any one coming in might have imagined that Emilie had been the cause of the disaster, so affronted was Miss Webster’s manner, and so pettishly did she reject all her visitor’s suggestions as preposterous and impossible.

“Will you give up your walk to-night, Edith,” said Emilie on her return to the shop, “Poor Miss Webster is in such pain I cannot leave her, and if you would run home and ask your papa to step in and see her, and say she has scalt her foot badly, I would thank you very much.”

Emilie spoke earnestly, so earnestly that Edith asked if she were grown very fond of that “sour old maid all of a sudden.”

“Very fond!  No Edith; but it does not, or ought not to require us to be very fond of people to do our duty to them.”

“Well, I don’t see what duty you owe to that mean creature, and I see no reason why I should lose my walk again to-night.  You treat people you don’t love better than those you do it seems; or else your professions of loving me mean nothing.  All day long you have been after Fred’s balloon, and now I suppose mean to be all night long after Miss Webster’s foot.”

Emilie made no reply; she could only have reproached Edith for selfishness and temper at least equal to Miss Webster’s, but telling Lucy she should soon return, hastened to Mr. Parker’s house, followed by Edith; he was soon at the patient’s side, and as Emilie foretold, it was a case more for an attentive nurse than a skilful doctor.  He promised to send her an application, but, “Miss Schomberg,” said he, “sleep is what she wants; she tells me she has had no rest since the accident occurred.  What is to be done?” “Can you not send for a neighbour, Miss Webster, or some one to attend to your household, and to nurse you too.  If you worry yourself in this way you will be quite ill.”

Poor Miss Webster was ill, she knew it; and having neither neighbour nor friend within reach, she did what was very natural in her case, she took up her handkerchief and began to cry.  “Oh, come, Miss Webster,” said Emilie, cheerfully, “I will get you to bed, and Lucy shall come when the shop is closed, and to-morrow I will get aunt Agnes to come and nurse you.  Keep up your spirits.”

“Ah, it is very well to talk of keeping up spirits, and as to your aunt Agnes, there never was any love lost between us.  No thank you, Miss Schomberg, no thank you.  If I may just trouble you to help me to the side of my bed, I can get in, and do very well alone. Good night.”  Emilie stood looking pitifully at her.  “I hope I don’t keep you, Miss Schomberg, pray don’t stay, you cannot help me,” and here Miss Webster rose, but the agony of putting her foot to the ground was so great that she could not restrain a cry, and Emilie, who saw that the poor sufferer was like a child in helplessness, and like a child, moreover, in petulance, calmly but resolutely declared her intention of remaining until Lucy could leave the shop.