Just then Jeannie woke up, and stretched her arms out to her.

“So you are back at last, dear,” she said in her sweet childish voice.  “It has been so lonely without you.  Why, how wet you are!  Take off your jacket at once, Gussie, or you will soon be as ill as”—­and here she broke out into a terrible fit of coughing, that seemed to shake her tender frame as the wind shakes a reed.

Her sister turned and obeyed, and then came and sat by the sofa and took the thin little hand in hers.

“Well, Gussie, and how did you get on with the Printer-devil” (this was her impolite name for the great Meeson); “will he give you any more money?”

“No, dear; we quarrelled, that was all, and I came away.”

“Then I suppose that we can’t go abroad?”

Augusta was too moved to answer; she only shook her head.  The child buried her face in the pillow and gave a sob or two.  Presently she was quiet, and lifted it again.  “Gussie, love,” she said, “don’t be angry, but I want to speak to you.  Listen, my sweet Gussie, my angel.  Oh, Gussie, you don’t know how I love you!  It is all no good, it is useless struggling against it, I must die sooner or later; though I am only twelve, and you think me such a child, I am old enough to understand that.  I think,” she added, after pausing to cough, “that pain makes one old:  I feel as though I were fifty.  Well, so you see I may as well give up fighting against it and die at once.  I am only a burden and anxiety to you—­I may as well die at once and go to sleep.”

“Don’t, Jeannie! don’t!” said her sister, in a sort of cry; “you are killing me!”

Jeannie laid her hot hand upon Augusta’s arm, “Try and listen to me, dear,” she said, “even if it hurts, because I do so want to say something.  Why should you be so frightened about me?  Can any place that I can go be worse than this place?  Can I suffer more pain anywhere, or be more hurt when I see you crying?  Think how wretched it has all been.  There has only been one beautiful thing in our lives for years and years, and that was your book.  Even when I am feeling worst—­when my chest aches, you know—­I grow quite happy when I think of what the papers wrote about you:  the Times and the Saturday Review, and the Spectator, and the rest of them.  They said that you had genius—­true genius, you remember, and that they expected one day to see you at the head of the literature of the time, or near it.  The Printer-devil can’t take away that, Gussie.  He can take the money; but he can’t say that he wrote the book; though,” she added, with a touch of childish spite and vivacity, “I have no doubt that he would if he could.  And then there were those letters from the great authors up in London; yes, I often think of them too.  Well, dearest old girl, the best of it is that I know it is all true.  I know, I can’t tell you how, that you will be a great woman in spite of all the Meesons in creation; for somehow you will