The last sentence was in an undertone.

Mrs. Carleton left the carriage, and crossing the pavement, entered one of the houses, and passed up with the doctor to the second story.  To his light tap at a chamber door a woman’s voice said,—­

“Come in.”

The door was pushed open, and the doctor and Mrs. Carleton went in.  The room was small, and furnished in the humblest manner, but the air was pure, and everything looked clean and tidy.  In a chair, with a pillow pressed in at her back for a support, sat a pale, emaciated woman, whose large, bright eyes looked up eagerly, and in a kind of hopeful surprise, at so unexpected a visitor as the lady who came in with the doctor.  On her lap a baby was sleeping, as sweet, and pure, and beautiful a baby as ever Mrs. Carleton had looked upon.  The first impulse of her true woman’s heart, had she yielded to it, would have prompted her to take it in her arms and cover it with kisses.

The woman was too weak to rise from her chair, but she asked Mrs. Carleton to be seated in a tone of lady-like self-possession that did not escape the visitor’s observation.

“How did you pass the night, Mrs. Leslie?” asked the doctor.

“About as usual,” was answered, in a calm, patient way; and she even smiled as she spoke.

“How about the pain through your side and shoulder?”

“It may have been a little easier.”

“You slept?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What of the night sweats?”

“I don’t think they have diminished any.”

The doctor beat his eyes to the floor, and sat in silence for some time.  The heart of Mrs. Carleton was opening towards—­the baby and it was a baby to make its way into any heart.  She had forgotten her own weakness—­forgotten, in the presence of this wan and wasted mother, with a sleeping cherub on her lap, all about her own invalid state.

“I will send you a new medicine,” said the doctor, looking up; then speaking to Mrs. Carleton, he added,—­

“Will you sit here until I visit two or three patients in the block?”

“O, certainly,” and she reached out her arms for the baby, and removed it so gently from its mother’s lap that its soft slumber was not broken.  When the doctor returned he noticed that there had been tears in Mrs. Carleton’s eyes.  She was still holding the baby, but now resigned the quiet sleeper to its mother, kissing it as she did so.  He saw her look with a tender, meaning interest at the white, patient face of the sick woman, and heard her say, as she spoke a word or two in parting,—­

“I shall not forget you.”

“That’s a sad case, doctor,” remarked the lady, as she took her place in the carriage.

“It is.  But she is sweet and patient.”

“I saw that, and it filled me with surprise.  She tells me that her husband died a year ago.”

“Yes.”

“And that she has supported herself by shirt-making.”