It was next to that of her mistress, and she could hear the sick child feebly moaning.

Her eyes filled with tears--real ones this time.
"Poor little thing," she said; "I hope she won't die." And then she threw herself on her bed, and buried her hot head in the pillow.

The intelligence of the fever seemed to have terrified her.

Had the news disarranged some well-concocted plan of hers?
Being near the accomplishment of some cherished scheme long kept in view, had the sudden and unexpected presence of disease falsified her carefully-made calculations, and cast an almost insurmountable obstacle in her path?
"She die! and through me?
How did I know that he had the fever?
Perhaps I have taken it myself--I feel ill." She turned over on the bed, as if in pain, and then started to a sitting position, stung by a sudden thought.

"Perhaps he might die! The fever spreads quickly, and if so, all this plotting will have been useless.