“Oh, Roger, my heart is paralyzed with dread.  The skies you were making so bright for us have become black with ruin.  You are the only one who brings me any hope or comfort.  Come with me.  Look at Belle there.  She doesn’t know any of us.  For the last hour her mind has wandered.  Half the time she is thanking you for all that you have done for us; then she calls for papa, or is away in the country.  The doctor has been here, and he looked very grave.  He says it’s all due to the bad sanitary condition of this part of the city, and that there are other cases just like it, and that they are hard to manage.  Why didn’t we move before?  Oh, oh, oh!” and she cried as if her heart would break.

“Don’t grieve so, Millie,” Roger faltered.  “I never could stand it to see tears in your eyes.  Belle is young and vigorous; she’ll pull through.”

“I hope so.  Oh, what should we do if she should—­But the doctor says the fever takes a stronger hold on persons of full habit like Belle, and now that I’ve made inquiries I find that it has been fatal in several instances.  We have been so troubled about papa that we thought of nothing else, and did not realize our danger.  There are two cases like Belle’s across the way, and one in this house, and none of them are expected to live.”

“Millie,” said Roger resolutely, “I won’t even entertain the thought of Belle’s dying.  I’m going to stay with you every night until she is out of danger.  I can doze here in this chair, and I should be sleepless with anxiety anywhere else.  You must let me become a brother now in very truth.”

“No, Roger, we can’t permit it.  You might catch the fever.”

“Millie, I will stay.  Do you think I could leave you to meet this trouble alone?  I can relieve you in many ways, and give you and your mother a chance for a little rest.  Besides, what is the fever to me?” he added, with a touch of recklessness which she understood too well.

“Roger,” she said gravely, “think what your life and health are to me.  If you should fail me I should despair.”

“I won’t fail you,” he replied, with a little confident nod.  “You will always find me on hand like a good-natured dragon whenever you are in trouble.  The first thing to do is to send these children to the country, and out of this poisoned air,” and he sat down at once and wrote to his mother and Clara Wilson, formerly Clara Bute.  Then, true to his word, he watched with Mildred and Mrs. Jocelyn every night.  Frequently his hand upon the brow of the delirious girl would quiet her when nothing else could, and Mildred often saw his tears falling fast on the unconscious face.

Mrs. Wilson answered his letter in person.  “I couldn’t wait a minute,” she said.  “I went right over to Mrs. Atwood’s and told her that no one could have the children but me, and my husband says they can stay until you want them back.  He is so good to me!  Dear little Belle!” she sobbed, bending over the sufferer, “to think that I once so misjudged you!  A better-hearted girl never breathed.  As soon as she’s able to be moved you must bring her right to me, and I’ll take care of her till she’s her old rosy, beautiful self.  No, I’ll come for her.  I wish I could take her in my arms and carry her home now.”