Angel by B.M. Croker

ALTHOUGH the temperature was that of a bake-house, and not a breath of air stirred the drowsy bamboos, or the long seed-pods of the bare acacias; yet, as Mrs. Wilkinson was driven homewards, her teeth chattered, and her hands were as cold as ice-premonitory symptoms of a severe attack of fever. Bitterly she now blamed herself for her folly in lingering by the riverside, and she recalled what the river's bosom carried with a gasping shudder. Was it a warning to her? No, no; she was but nine-and-twenty-her life was not yet half spent. She drew the sleeping child into her arms, and oh, how warm the little creature felt, in her own deathly cold embrace!

In a day or two it became widely known that Mrs. Wilkinson was dangerously ill-hers was no mere ordinary local fever, but a really grave case. The doctor's closed gharry drove into the corner compound three times a day; kind neighbours came late and early, bringing ice, jelly, and all manner of delicacies, hoping to tempt the appetite of the invalid, and to eke out Colonel Wilkinson's meagre catering. Mrs. Rattray, who had no family cares, took up her post in the sick-room, and relieved a trained nurse, whilst other ladies-and this is ever an action of fatal significance-carried off the children with their toys, ayahs, and sleeping-cots; but Angel ran home every night and lay on the mat outside her mother's door.