“He’s about as bad as I’ve ever seen him,” nurse said shortly, and turned to leave the room; but Susie clung desperately to her skirt.

“Don’t go, nurse.  Let me do something—­let me hold baby.”

“No, indeed, Miss Susie,” said nurse; “you’ve done mischief enough already.  Go to bed quietly, and try to get up right foot foremost to-morrow.”

Susie went back to the window-sill, and huddled up close to Tom.  With blank eyes she looked at the stars and the moon bursting from behind hurrying clouds.  Even when she put her fingers into her ears that rasping cough pursued her.  Tom’s heavy head fell against her, and she knew he ought to be in bed; but it wanted really desperate courage to shake him into consciousness and get him up somehow to his room.

And upstairs, next to Tom’s little bed, was an empty space, from which a crib had been hastily wheeled into the next room.  On the floor beside it lay a vest and knickerbockers, still heavy with sea water, and a red tin pail and spade.  It made Susie sick to look at them.  But she got Tom at last into his bed, and covered him up.  He tried to say his prayers, but he was too sleepy; and Susie hushed him at last, and crept away to her own little room in the dark.

Amy was so soundly asleep that she did not even turn; but Susie could not rest.  All through the miserable hours she sat straight up in bed, looking before her with staring eyes, and listening to the uneasy movements next door.

It was almost morning when Amy woke at last and turned her startled gaze on Susie’s face, but what she read there drove her out of her own bed and on to Susie’s.  Then she stretched out two comforting little arms and held her close.

“Don’t, Susie, don’t,” she said breathlessly; “it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” said Susie harshly.

Amy rubbed her rosy cheek against Susie’s sleeve, and at the touch Susie’s frozen heart melted.  Tears came and sobs, till the sheet was wet, and she could only speak in gasps.

“Mother trusted me!  I am going to mother, Amy.  I can’t bear it any more.  If Dick dies, it is me that did it.  I was the only one who knew.”

“Let me get your shoes,” said Amy.

But Susie would not wait.  She slipped out of bed on to the cold boards—­a small, miserable figure, disfigured with crying—­whilst Amy watched her breathlessly.  She opened the door and listened.  Every one seemed to be asleep, except that in the room next door she heard hushed voices and the tread of careful feet, then the rattle of a cup and Dick’s cough.  She opened the door as gently as she could and looked in.  The blind was up and a fire burning.  The tent of blankets had been pulled down, and Dick, with the poultice still on his chest, was sitting up in bed, wrapped in a soft red shawl.  By the table stood nurse, making tea; and his mother, looking pale and tired, was sitting by the crib.  She looked up when the door opened, and without a word held out her arms.