She turned away.  She did not mean to be hard, but somehow she could not kiss Esther’s husband.

“Ah, well; it’s all the same! good-by!”

“Good-by, Tom.”

But as she stood at the door, and looked back at him lying with his eyes shut, and as white as if he were dead, Elizabeth’s heart melted.  He was her Tom, her own Tom, of whom she had been so fond, so proud; whose future she had joyfully anticipated long before she thought of herself as mixed up with it; and he was dying, dying at four-and-twenty; passing away to the other world, where, perhaps, she might meet him yet, with no cruel Esther between.

“Tom,” she said, and knelt beside him, “Tom, I didn’t mean to vex you.  I’ll try to be as good as a sister to you.  I’ll never forsake you as long as you live.”

“I know you never will.”

“Good-by, then for to-night.”

And she did kiss him, mouth to mouth, quietly and tenderly.  She was so glad of it afterward.

It was late enough when she reached Russell Square; but nobody ever questioned the proceedings of Mrs. Hand, who was a privileged person.  She crept in beside her little Henry, and as the child turned in his sleep and put his arms about her neck, she clasped him tight, and thought there was still something to live for in this weary world.

All night she thought over what best could be done for Tom.  Though she never deceived herself for a moment as to his state, still she thought, with care and proper nursing, he might live a few months.  Especially if she could get him into the Consumption Hospital, newly started in Chelsea, of which she was aware Mr. Ascott—­who dearly loved to see his name in a charity list—­was one of the governors.

There was no time to be lost; she determined to speak to her master at once.

The time she chose was when she brought down little Henry, who was now always expected to appear, and say, “Dood morning, papa,” before Mr. Ascott went into the city.

As they stood, the boy laughing in his father’s face, and the father beaming all over with delight, the bitter, almost fierce thought, smote Elizabeth, Why should Peter Ascott be standing there fat and flourishing, and poor Tom dying?  It made her bold to ask the only favor she ever had asked of the master whom she did not care for, and to whom she had done her duty simply as duty, without, until lately, one fragment of respect.

“Sir, if you please, might I speak with you a minute before you go out?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Hand.  Any thing about Master Henry?  Or perhaps yourself?  You want more wages?  Very well.  I shall be glad, in any reasonable way, to show my satisfaction at the manner in which you bring up my son.”

“Thank you, Sir,” said Elizabeth, curtseying.  “But it is not that.”

And in the briefest language she could find she explained what it was.

Mr. Ascott knitted his brows and looked important.  He never scattered his benefits with a silent hand, and he dearly liked to create difficulties, if only to show how he could smooth them down.