absent ten minutes, then a little girl—Amy Hewett—came into the kitchen and asked the stranger to follow her.
Jane had been rapidly transferred from the mattress to the bedstead, and the room had been put into such order as was possible. A whisper from Mrs. Peckover to Mrs. Hewett, promising remission of half a week's rent, had sufficed to obtain for the former complete freedom in her movements. The child, excited by this disturbance, had begun to moan and talk inarticulately. Mrs. Peckover listened for a moment, but heard nothing dangerous. She bade the old man enter noiselessly, and herself went about on tiptoe, speaking only in a hoarse whisper.
The visitor had just reached the bedside, and was gazing with deep, compassionate interest at the unconscious face, when Jane, as if startled, half rose and cried painfully, "Mr. Kirkwood! oh, Mr. Kirkwood!" and she stretched her hand out, appearing to believe that the friend she called upon was near her.
