On the paper were four lines, written in pencil in a cramped hand; and, alas! though Tilda could read print, she had next to no acquaintance with handwriting.

The words were a blur to her.  She stared at them; but what she saw was the gaze of the sick woman, upturned to her from the bed.  The scrap of paper hid it, and yet she saw.  She must act quickly.

She gave a reassuring nod, turned the gas-jet low, and slid down into bed with the paper clenched in her hand.  But as her head touched the pillow she heard a rustling noise, and craned up her neck again.  The patient had rolled over on her left side, facing her, fighting for breath.

“Yes, yes,” Tilda lied hardily.  “To-morrow—­Arthur—­they shall send for him to-morrow.”

“Four,” said the sick woman.  The word was quite distinct.  Another word followed which Tilda could not catch.

“Four o’clock, or may be earlier,” she promised.

“L—­l—­lozenges,” the tongue babbled.

Tilda glanced towards the medicine table.

“Diamonds,” said the voice with momentary firmness; “four diamonds . . . on his coat . . . his father’s . . . his . . . .”

“Four diamonds, yes?” the child repeated.

“Ned did them . . . he told me . . . told me . . . .”  But here the voice wavered and trailed off into babble, meaningless as a year-old infant’s.  Tilda listened hard for a minute, two minutes, then dropped her head back on her pillow as the door-handle rattled.  It was the Second Nurse returning for night duty.

Early next morning the doctor came—­a thin young man with a stoop, and a crop of sandy hair that stood upright from his forehead.  Tilda detested him.

He and the Second Nurse talked apart for quite a long while, and paid no attention to the child, who lay shamming a doze, but with her ears open.

She heard the doctor say—­

“She?  Oh, move her to the far end of the ward.”

The Second Nurse muttered something, and he went on—­

“She is well, practically.  All she wants now is someone to keep an eye on her, make her lie up for a couple of hours every day, and box her ears if she won’t.”

“That’s me,” thought Tilda.  “I’m to be moved out of the way because t’other’s going to die; and if she’s going to die, there’s no time to be lost.”

She stirred, lifted her head, and piped—­

“Doctor!”

“Hullo, imp!  I thought you were sleeping.”

“So I was.  I sleep ’eaps better now.”  She drew her hurt leg up and down in the bed.  “Doctor, I ’d be all right, certain sure, if you let me out for arf-an-hour.  Sister let me sit out for ever so long yestiday, an’ while she was dustin’ out the men’s ward I practised walkin’—­all the lenth of the room an’ back.”

“When I told you never, on any account!” the Sister scolded.

“If I’d only the loan of a crutch!” pleaded Tilda; “an’ it couldn’ do me no ’arm in this weather.”