"How did you pass the night, Mrs. Leslie?" asked the doctor. "About as usual," was answered, in a calm, patient way; and she even smiled as she spoke. "How about the pain through your side and shoulder?" "It may have been a little easier." "You slept?" "Yes, sir." "What of the night sweats?" "I don't think they have diminished any." The doctor beat his eyes to the floor, and sat in silence for some time. The heart of Mrs. Carleton was opening towards--the baby and it was a baby to make its way into any heart. She had forgotten her own weakness--forgotten, in the presence of this wan and wasted mother, with a sleeping cherub on her lap, all about her own invalid state. "I will send you a new medicine," said the doctor, looking up; then speaking to Mrs. Carleton, he added,-- "Will you sit here until I visit two or three patients in the block?" "O, certainly," and she reached out her arms for the baby, and removed it so gently from its mother's lap that its soft slumber was not broken. When the doctor returned he noticed that there had been tears in Mrs. Carleton's eyes. She was still holding the baby, but now resigned the quiet sleeper to its mother, kissing it as she did so. He saw her look with a tender, meaning interest at the white, patient face of the sick woman, and heard her say, as she spoke a word or two in parting,-- "I shall not forget you." "That's a sad case, doctor," remarked the lady, as she took her place in the carriage. "It is. But she is sweet and patient." "I saw that, and it filled me with surprise. She tells me that her husband died a year ago." "Yes." "And that she has supported herself by shirt-making."