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 "Our little Miss Josephine. I reckon she'll die."

"Die, Peter? That little girl? What's the matter?" cried Michael.

"Goodness knows, I don't. She can't hardly breathe, she can't. Massa Joe's sent for his doctor and his doctor he's out, and we don't have no faith in them others round the square, and—Will some of your women please just step in and take a look at our poor little missy?"

Michael darted back into the sitting-room, exclaiming:

"Grandma, that little girl next door is awful sick. Peter's frightened most to death himself. He wants some of our women to go in there and help them."

"Our women! Of what use would they be, either of them? I'll go myself. Ring for Mary, please," said the old lady, rising.

The maid appeared, and was directed to bring:

"My shawl and scarf, Mary. I'm going in next door to see a sick child. You stay right