“She shall please herself,” said her father, after some discussion on the subject.  “God has been very merciful to us so far.  We will put our trust in Him during all this time.  If the girl has had a call, let her do her duty, and He will he with her.”

That night the three devoted women slept beneath the roof of the bridge house.  Upon the morrow they sallied forth to their strange task, but were told by the master of the house that they might return thither at any time they chose, provided they took the prescribed precautions with regard to their clothing before they entered.

The sun was blazing hotly down on the streets as they opened the door to go forth.  Sultry weather had now set in, no rain fell through the long, scorching days, and the heat was a terrible factor in the spread of the epidemic.  Dinah, who had been nigh upon fourteen days shut up in one house, looked about her with grave, watchful eyes.  Already she saw a great difference in the look of the bridge.  Four houses were marked with the ominous red cross; and the tide of traffic, bearing the stream of persons out from the stricken city, had almost ceased.  Bills of health were difficult to obtain now.  The country villages round were loth to receive inmates of London.  All roads were watched, and many hapless stragglers sent back again who had thought to escape from the city of destruction.  Myriads had already left, and others were still flying—­they could make shift to escape.  But the continuous stream had ceased to cross the bridge.  Foot passengers were few, and all walked in the middle of the road, avoiding contact with one another.  Many kept a handkerchief or cloth pressed to their faces.  Strangers eyed each other askance, none knowing that the other might not be already sickening of the disease.  Between the stones of the streets blades of grass were beginning to grow up.  Dinah pointed to these tokens and gave a little sigh.

Just before they turned off from the bridge a flying figure was seen approaching, and Janet exclaimed quickly: 

“Why, it is Dorcas!”

Since her fright of a fortnight back, Dorcas had remained an inmate of Lady Scrope’s house by her own desire.  Although she knew that poor Frederick would annoy her no more, she had come to have a horror of the very streets themselves.  She had never forgotten the apparition of that white-robed figure, clad in what seemed like its death shroud; and as Lady Scrope was by no means ill pleased to keep her young maiden by night as well as by day, her father was glad that she should be saved the risk even of the short walk to and fro each day.

But here she was, flying homewards as though there were wings to her feet; and she would almost have passed them in her haste, had not Janet laid hold of her arm and spoken her name aloud.  Then she gave a little cry of relief and happiness, and turning upon her aunt, she cried: