As mentioned above, Wilkinson had nearly reached his own door when he encountered Ellis; was, in fact, so near, that he could see the light shining from the chamber-window through which, some hours before, he had marked on the wall the flitting shadow of his wife, as she walked to and fro, seeking to soothe into slumber her sick and grieving child.  For nearly five minutes, he had stood talking with his friend, and the sound of their voices might easily have been heard in his dwelling, if one had been listening intently there.  And one was listening with every sense strung to the acutest perception.  Just as Wilkinson moved away, an observer would have seen the door of his house open, and a slender female form bend forth, and look earnestly into the darkness.  A moment or two, she stood thus, and then stepped forth quickly, and leaning upon the iron railing of the door steps, fixed eagerly her eyes upon the slowly receding forms of the two men.

“John!  John!” she called, in half suppressed tones.

But her voice did not reach the ear of her husband, whose form she well knew, even in the obscurity of night.

Gliding down the steps, Mrs. Wilkinson ran a few paces along the pavement, but suddenly stopped as some thought passed through her mind; and, turning, went back to the door she had left.  There she stood gazing after her husband, until she saw him enter the tavern mentioned as being kept by a man named Parker, when, with a heavy, fluttering sigh, she passed into the house, and ascended to the chamber from which she had, a few minutes before, come down.

It was past eleven o’clock.  The two domestics had retired, and Mrs. Wilkinson was alone with her sick child.  Ella’s moan of suffering came on her ear the instant she re-entered the room, and she stepped quickly to the crib, and bent over to look into its face.  The cheeks of the child were flushed with fever to a bright crimson, and she was moving her head from side to side, and working her lips as if there was something in her mouth.  Slight twitching motions of the arms and hands were also noticed by the mother.  Her eyes were partly open.

“Will Ella have a drink of water?” said Mrs. Wilkinson, placing her hand under the child’s head, and slightly raising it from the pillow.

But Ella did not seem to hear.

“Say—­love, will you have some water?”

There was no sign that her words reached the child’s ears.

A deeper shade of trouble than that which already rested on the mother’s face glanced over it.

“Ella!  Ella!” Mrs. Wilkinson slightly shook the child.

The only response was the muttering of some incoherent words, and a continued moaning as if pain were disturbing her sleep.

The mother now bent low over her child, and eagerly marked the expression of her face and the character of her breathing.  Then she laid a hand upon her cheek.  Instantly it was withdrawn with a quick start, but as quickly replaced again.