There had been a large household only a few days before.  Father, mother, two grownup sons, and one or two daughters—­evidently by a former marriage.  The big brothers had gone away—­probably to act as bearers or watchmen—­and the little ones knew nothing of them.  One of the sisters had been in service, but came home suddenly, complaining of illness, sat down in a chair, and died almost before they realized she was ill.  They had kept that death a secret, had obtained a certificate of some other ailment than the distemper, and for a week all had gone on quietly, when suddenly three became ill together.

Numbers of houses were shut up all round them.  Theirs was reported and closed.  For a few days there had been hope.  Then the father sickened, and all the grownup persons had died almost together, save the mother, and had been taken away the night before last.

What had happened since was dim and confused to the children.  Their mother had seemed like one stunned—­had hardly noticed them, or attended to their wants.  Then two of them had been taken away into the other room.  They had heard their mother weeping aloud for a while, but she would not let them in to her.  By and by she had come back to them, and had taken the baby in her arms and lain down upon the bed.  She had never moved after that—­not even when little Harry had called to her, and had lain crying and moaning on the floor.  The children thought she was asleep, and by and by Harry had gone to sleep too.  They had slept together on the floor, huddled together in helpless misery and confusion of mind, until awakened by the ceaseless wailing of the baby, which never roused their mother.  They were too much bewildered and weakened to make any attempt to call for help, and were just waiting for what would happen, when Gertrude had come amongst them like an angel of mercy.

Her tears fell fast as the story was told, but the children had shed all theirs.  They were comforted now, feeling as though something good had happened, and they crept about her and clung round her, begging her not to leave them.

Nor had she any wish to do so.  It seemed to her as though this must surely be her place for the present—­amongst these helpless little ones to whom Providence had sent her in the hour of their extreme necessity.

The baby was sleeping in her arms.  She looked down into its tiny face, and wondered if it would be possible that its life could be saved.  For a whole night it had lain at its dead mother’s side.  Could it have escaped the contagion?  The three older children appeared well, and even grew merry as the hours wore slowly away.

From time to time Gertrude looked out into the street, but there was nothing to be seen save the men on guard; and only from time to time was the silence broken by the cry of some delirious patient, or a shriek for mercy from some half-demented woman driven frantic by the terrors by which she was surrounded.