But whatever this cloud is, it now blinded and misguided me.  I quietly, very quietly, put away some little moneys that lay about,—­locked up nearly all my small stock of silver and my scanty jewelry,—­locked my bureau-drawers,—­counted unobtrusively the weekly proceeds of the washing,—­and was extremely watchful against the least alteration of my manner towards my poor pretty maid.

It might have been a week after this, when my husband said one morning that Bridget’s eyes were heavy, and she had moved with a start several times, as though she were half-asleep.  Now that he spoke, I saw it, and wondered that I had not seen it before; but I think some men notice things more quickly than women.  I asked the child if she were well.

“Yes, Ma’am,” she said, spiritlessly, “but my head aches.”

I observed her; and she dragged herself about with difficulty, and was painfully slow about her dishes.  At tea-time I made her lie down in my little back parlor and got the meal myself, and made her a nice cup of tea.  She slept a little, but grew flushed.  Next morning she was not fit to get up, but insisted that she was, and would not remain in bed.  But she ate nothing,—­indeed, for a day or two she had not eaten,—­and after breakfast she grew faint, and then more flushed than ever; seemed likely to have a hard run of fever; and I sent for my doctor,—­a homoeopath.

He came, saw, queried, and prescribed.  Doctor-like, he evaded my inquiry what was the matter, so that I saw it was a serious case.  On my intimating as much, he said, with sudden decision,—­

“I’ll tell you what, Madam.  She may be better by night.  If not, you’d better send for Bagford.  He might do better for her than I.”

I was extremely surprised, for Bagford is a vigorous allopath of the old school, drastic, bloody,—­and an uncompromising enemy of “that quack,” as he called my grave young friend.  I said as much.  Doctor Nash smiled.

“Oh, I don’t mind it, so long as the patients come to me.  I can very well afford to send him one now and then.  The fact is, the Irish must feel their medicine.  It’s quite often that a raking dose will cure ’em, not because it’s the right thing, but because it takes their imagination with it.  The Irish imagination goes with Bagford and against me; and the wrong medicine with the imagination is better than the right one against it.  I care more about curing this child than I do about him.  Besides,”—­and he grew grave,—­“it may be no great favor to him.”

I obliged him to tell me that he feared the attack would develop into brain-fever; and he said something was on the girl’s mind.  As soon as he was gone, I ran up to poor Bridget, whose sweet face and great brown eyes were kindled, in her increasing fever, into a hot, fearful beauty; and now I could see a steady, mournful, pained look contracting her mouth and lifting the delicate lines of her eyebrows.  Poor little girl!  I felt the same deep yearning