University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

“Where are you going, Irene?”

“Only to the Factory-row.”

“For what, I should like to know?”

“To see Bessie Davis, who has been very
ill.”

“Fiddle-stick! I want the carriage myself.
I promised to send down to the hotel for Judge
Peterson, who is coming to spend the night
here.”

“Of course, father, if you want Andrew, I
do not wish to interfere with your arrangements.
I did not know that you intended to
use the carriage. John, tell Andrew to drive
the horses back to the stable-yard until called
for, and have Erebus saddled at once. Unpack
that flat basket I left on the pantry-shelf,
and put the things into one with a handle, that
I can carry in my hand. The egg-basket will
do very well; it has a cover.”

She went to her room, changed her dress
for her riding-habit, and came down to the
front door, where her father sat smoking.

“What are you going to do with that basket?
Erebus won't suffer you to carry it.”

“Yes, sir; he will suffer just what I please
to take. I have a bottle of wine, some jelly,
and some light bread, for poor Mrs. Davis.'

“What sort of wine?”

“Not your high-priced sherry or port, but
a pint bottle of madeira. Tighten that girth
for me, Andrew, if you please; the saddle turned
the last time I rode.”

“I 'll bet that you will let that basket fall
before you get to the gate, and lose every drop
in it. It is all nonsense! sheer nonsense!”

She made no reply, but mounted the beautiful
spirited animal, who arched his neck and
curveted at sight of the basket. Patting his
mane soothingly, she hung the basket securely
on the pommel of the saddle, and rode off.

“He is wilder to-day than he was when I
first bought him; he will break her neck yet,
I have n't a doubt,” muttered Mr. Huntingdon,
looking after her.

“No he won't, master; she can tame him
down any minute. Last week she wanted to
ride, but he had got out into the creek pasture,
and I could n't catch him. I raced him
for a half-hour up and down, and could n't
come near him; I tried him with corn and fodder,
but he ran like a deer. I give it up, sir,
and told Miss Irene he was in one of his tantrums,
and I could do nothing with him. She
just put on her hat and walked over to the
pasture, and the minute he saw her coming he
neighed two or three times, and, before I could
get to her, she had her hand on his mane, patting
him, and he was rubbing his head against
her. Miss Irene can tame anything in this
world, she has such a steady, conquering look
in her eyes.”

Such were Andrew's reassuring words, as,
with his hat on the back of his head, and both
hands thrust into his deep pockets, he stood
watching his young mistress, until a turn in
the road obscured both horse and rider, then
walked back to the stable.

It was a cold afternoon in November—

had kindled her forest conflagration. Golden
maples and amber-hued cherries, crimson dogwoods
and scarlet oaks shook out their flame-foliage
and waved their glowing boughs, all
dashed and speckled, flecked and rimmed with
orange and blood, ghastly green, and tawny
brown. The hectic spot burned everywhere,
save on the solemn sombre pines that lifted
themselves defiantly far above the fevered region
of decay. Royal clusters of golden-rod
were blackened and seared by the lips of an
early frost, and pallid starry asters shivered
and dropped their faded petals as the wind
bowed their fragile heads. The smoky atmosphere,
which had hung all day in purple folds
around the distant hills, took a golden haze as
the sun sank rapidly; and to Irene's gaze
river and wood-land, hill-side and valley, were
brimmed with that weird “light which never
was on sea or land.” Her almost “Brahminical”
love of nature had grown with her years,
but a holier element mingled with her adoration
now; she looked beyond the material veil
of beauty, and bowed reverently before the
indwelling Spiritual Presence. Only during
these silent hours of communion afforded by
her solitary rides was the shadow lifted from
her heart, and at such times immemorial Cybele's
fingers, soft and warm, touched the still
face, and the icy lines melted. Since Hugh's
death, nearly a year before, she had become a
recluse, availing herself of her mourning
dress to decline all social engagements, and
during these months a narrow path opened
before her feet, she became a member of the
church which she had attended from infancy,
and her hands closed firmly over her life-work.
The baffling Sphinx that had so long vexed
her sat no more at the cross-roads of her existence;
she found an Œdipus in the far more
than cabalistic words:

Sorrow and want hung out their signs
among the poor of W—, and here, silently,
but methodically, she had become, not a ministering
angel certainly, but a generous benefactress,
a noble, sympathetic friend—a counsellor
whose strong good sense rendered her
advice and guidance valuable indeed. By a
system of rigid economy she was enabled to
set apart a small portion of money, which she
gave judiciously, superintending its investment;
kind, hopeful words she scattered like
sunshine over every threshold; and here and
there, where she detected smouldering aspiration,
or incipient appreciation of learning, she
fanned the spark with some suitable volume
from her own library, which, in more than one
instance, became the germ, the spring of “a
joy for ever.” Frequently her father threw
obstacles in her way, sneering all the while at
her “sanctimonious freaks.” Sometimes she
affected not to notice the impediments, sometimes
frankly acknowledged their magnitude,
and climbed right over them, on to her work.
Among the factory operatives she found the
greatest need of ameliorating touches of every
kind. Improvident, illiterate, in some cases
almost brutalized, she occasionally found herself
puzzled as to the proper plan to pursue;
but her womanly heart, like the hidden jewelled
levers of a watch, guided the womanly
hands unerringly.

This evening, as she approached the row of
low white-washed houses, a crowd of children
swarmed out, as usual, to stare at her. She
rode up to a door-step where a boy of some
fourteen years sat sunning himself, with an
open book on his knee and a pair of crutches
beside him. At sight of her a bright smile
broke over his sickly face, and he tried to
rise.

“Good-evening, Philip; don't get up. How
are you to-day?”

“Better, I thank you, ma'm; but very stiff
yet.”

“The stiffness will pass off gradually, I
hope. I see you have not finished your book
yet; how do you like it?”

“Oh! I could bear to be a cripple always,
if I had plenty like it to read.”

“You need not be a cripple; but there are
plenty more, just as good and better, which
you shall have in time. Do you think you
could hold my horse for me a little while? I
can't find a suitable place to tie him. He is
gentle enough if you will only hold the reins.”

“Certainly, ma'm; I shall be glad to hold
him as long as you like.”

She dismounted, and, taking her basket,
placed the bridle in the boy's hand, saying encouragingly,
as Erebus put up his ears and
looked vicious:

“Don't be afraid of him. Speak to him
quietly if he gets restless, and if you can't
keep him in order, call me; I am going in next
door.”

He smiled assent, wrapped the bridle round
his wrist, and returned eagerly to his treasure,
Simms' “Life of Nathaniel Green,” while
Irene passed into the adjoining house. Some
sick-rooms are inviting, from the costly display
of marble, rosewood, velvet, and silver, from
the tasteful arrangement of books and flowers,
from the air of delicacy and affectionate consideration
which pervades them. But those
where poverty stands grim and gaunt on the
hearth are rarely enticing, and to this dreary
class belonged the room where Bessie Davis
had suffered for months, watching the sands of
life run low, and the shadow of death growing
longer across the threshold day by day. The
dust and lint of the cotton-room had choked
the springs of life, and on her hollow cheeks
glowed the autograph of consumption. She
stretched out her wasted hand, and said:

“Ah, Miss Irene! I heard your voice outside,
and it was pleasant to my ears as the
sound of the bell when work-hours are over.
I am always glad to see your face, but this
evening I was longing for you, hoping and
praying that you would come. I am in
trouble.”

“About what, Mrs. Davis? Nothing serious,
I hope; tell me.”

“I don't know how serious it is going to be.
Johnnie is sick in the next room, taken yesterday;
and, about noon to-day, Susan had to
knock off work and come home. Hester is the
only one left, and you know she is but a baby
to work. I don't like to complain of my lot,
God knows, but it seems hard if we are all to
be taken down.”

“I hope they will not be sick long. What
is the matter with Johnnie?”

“Dear knows! I am sure I don't; he complains
of the headache and has fever, and
Susan here seems ailing the same way. She
is as stupid as can be—sleeps all the time. My
children have had measles, and whooping-cough,
and chicken-pox, and scarlet fever, and
I can't imagine what they are trying to catch
now. I hear that there is a deal of sickness
showing itself in the row.”

“Have you sent for the doctor?” asked
Irene, walking around to the other side of the
bed, and examining Susan's pulse.

“Yes, I sent Hester; but she said he told
her he was too busy to come.”

“Why did you not apply to some other
physician?”

“Because Dr. Brandon has always attended
me, and, as I sent for him first, I did n't know
whether any other doctor would like to come.
You know some of them have very curious
notions about their dignity.”

“And sometimes, while they pause to discuss
etiquette, humanity suffers. Susan, let
me see your tongue. Who else is sick in the
row, Mrs. Davis?”

“Three of Tom Brown's children, two of
Dick Spencer's, and Lucy Hall, and Mary
Moorhead. Miss Irene, will you be good
enough to give me a drink of water? Hester
has gone to try to find some wood, and I can't
reach the pitcher.”

“I brought you some jelly; would you like
a little now, or shall I put it away in the
closet?”

“Thank you; I will save it for my Johnnie,
he is so fond of sweet things; and, poor child!
he sees 'em so seldom now-a-day.”

“There is enough for you and Johnnie too.
Eat this, while I look after him, and see
whether he ought to have any this evening.”

She placed a saucer filled with the tempting
amber-hued delicacy on the little pine
table beside the bed, and went into the next
room. The boy, who looked about seven or
eight years old, lay on a pallet in one corner,
restless and fretful, his cheeks burning, and
his large brown eyes sparkling with fever.

“Johnnie, boy! what is the matter? Tell
me what hurts you?”

“My head aches so badly,” and tears came
to the beautiful childish eyes.

“It feels hot. Would you like to have it
bathed in cold water?”

“If you please, ma'm. I have been calling
Hettie, and she won't hear.”

“Because she has gone out. Let me see if
I can't do it just as well as Hettie.”

She hunted about the room for a cloth, but,
finding nothing suitable, took her cambric
handkerchief, and, after laving his forehead
gently for ten or fifteen minutes, laid the wet
folds upon it, and asked, smilingly:

“Does n't that feel pleasant?”

“Ever so nice, ma'm — if I had some to
drink.”

She put the dripping gourd to his parched
lips, and, after shaking up his pillow and
straightening the covering of his pallet, she
promised to see him again soon, and returned
to his mother.

“How does he appear to be, Miss Irene?
I had him moved out of this room because he
said my coughing hurt his head, and his continual
fretting worried me. I am so weak
now, God help me!” and she covered her eyes
with one hand.

“He has some fever, Mrs. Davis, but not
more than Susan. I will ask Dr. Arnold to
come and see them this evening. This change
in the weather is very well calculated to make
sickness. Are you entirely out of wood?”

“Very nearly, ma'm, a few sticks left.”

“When Hester comes, keep her at home.
I will send you some wood. And now, how
are you?”

“My cough is not quite so bad; the pectoral
holds it a little in check; but I had another
hemorrhage last night, and I am growing
weaker every day. Oh, Miss Irene! what
will become of my poor little children when I
am gone? That is such an agonizing thought.”
She sobbed as she spoke.

“Do not let that grieve you now. I promise
you that your children shall be taken care of.
I will send a servant down to stay here to-night,
and perhaps some of the women in the
row will be willing to come in occasionally
and help Hester till Susan gets able to cook.
I left two loaves of bread in the closet, and
will send more in the morning, which Hester
can toast. I shall go by town, and send Dr.
Arnold out.”

“I would rather have Dr. Brandon, if you
please.”

“Why?”

“I have always heard that Dr. Arnold was
so gruff and unfeeling, that I am afraid of him.
I hate to be snapped up when I ask a question.”

“That is a great mistake, Mrs. Davis. People
do him injustice. He has one of the kindest,
warmest hearts I ever knew, though sometimes
he is rather abrupt in his manner. If you
prefer it, however, I will see your doctor.
Good-by; I will come again to-morrow.”

As she took her bridle from Philip's hand,
the boy looked up at her with an expression
bordering on adoration.

“Thank you, Philip; how did he behave?”

“Not very well; but he is beautiful enough
to make up for his wildness.”

“That is bad doctrine; beauty never should
excuse bad behavior. Is your mother at
home?”

“No, ma'm.”

“When she comes, ask her I say please to
step in now and then, and overlook things for
Mrs. Davis; Susan is sick. Philip, if it is not
asking too much of you, Johnnie would like
for you to sit by him till his little sister comes
home, and wet that cloth which I left on his
head. Will you?”

“Indeed I will; I am very glad you told me.
Certainly I will.”

“I thought so. Don't talk to him; let him
sleep if he will. Good-by.”

She went first to a wood-yard on the river,
and left an order for a cord of wood to be sent
immediately to No. 13, Factory-row; then took

the street leading to Dr. Brandon's office. A
servant sat on the step whistling merrily,
and, in answer to her question, he informed
her that his master had just left town, to be
absent two days. She rode on for a few
squares, doubling her veil in the hope of
shrouding her features, and stopped once
more in front of the door where stood Dr.
Arnold's buggy.”

“Cyrus, is the doctor in his office?”

“Yes, Miss Irene.”

“Hold my horse for me.”

She gathered the folds of her riding-habit
over her arm, and went up stairs. Leaning
far back in his chair, with his feet on the fender
of the grate, sat Dr. Arnold, watching the
blue smoke of his meerschaum curl lazily in
faint wreaths over his head; and as she entered,
a look of pleasant surprise came instantly
into his cold, clear eyes.

“Bless me! Irene, I am glad to see you. It
is many a day since you have shown your face
here; sit down. Now, then, what is to pay?
You are in trouble, of course; you never think
of me except when you are. Has old Nellie
treated herself to another spell of rheumatism,
or Paragon broke his leg, or small-pox broke
out anywhere; or, worse than all, have the
hawks taken to catching your pigeons?”

“None of these catastrophes has overtaken
me; but I come, as usual, to ask a favor. If you
please, I want you to go up to the Factory-row
this evening. Mrs. Davis, No. 13, has two
children very sick, I am afraid. I don't like
the appearance of their tongues.”

“Humph! what do you know about tongues,
I should like to be informed?”

“How to use my own, sir, at least, when
there is a necessity for it. They are what you
medical savans call typhoid tongues; and from
what I heard to-day, I am afraid there will be
a distressing amount of sickness among the
operatives. Of course you will go, sir?”

“How do you know that so well? Perhaps
I will, and perhaps I won't. Nobody ever looks
after me, or cares about the condition of my
health; I don't see why I must adopt the
whole human race. See here, my child! do
not let me hear of you at the Row again soon;
it is no place for you, my lily. Ten to one it
is some low, miserable typhus fever showing
itself, and I will take care of your precious
pets only on condition that you keep away, so
that I shall not be haunted with the dread of
having you, also, on my hands. If I lay eyes
on you at the row, I swear I will write to
Leonard to chain you up at home. Do you
hear?”

“I shall come every day, I promise you
that.”

“Oh! you are ambitious of martyrdom! But
typhus fever is not the style, Queen. There
is neither eclat nor glory in such a death.”

A sad smile curved her mouth, as she answered,
slowly:

“Indeed you wrong me, Doctor. I am not
ready to die; I am not fit for eternity; my
work has but begun.”

“Why do you think so, my dear child?
What sin have you ever committed?”

“Sins of omission, sir, foot up as heavily as
those of commission.”

“Don't tread upon my Antinomianistic toes,
if you please! they are tender. Wherein
have you failed to do your duty?”

“God, and my own soul, only sit in assize
upon my derelictions.”

“Irene, I have watched you for years with
hungry, eager eyes; and of late I have followed
you in your rounds among the poor. You
are inaugurating a new system; the fashion is,
to organize societies, flame in print as officer,
president, treasurer, as the case may be, and
placard the members and purposes of the organization.
Left hand industriously puffs
what right hand doeth. Is it not so? One of
your own sex, the greatest, strongest, noblest
of your learned women singers, pithily tells
you:

“I tell you, Queen, I have watched these associations
all my life: I am getting old now,
and I am as completely nauseated with their
cant and phariseeism as Macaulay was with
that of the seventeenth century Puritans.
Self-glorification has a deal of influence over
our modern Dorcases.”

“I think, sir, that you are unjust in some
instances; your cynical lenses distort the
facts. Judiciously-conducted charitable societies
greatly facilitate matters, by systematizing
the work and inducing punctuality.
I grant that the evils you speak of are much
to be deprecated; and, to complete your own
lengthy quotation:

“Doctor, I wish you were more of an optimist.”

He took one of her hands, spread out the
ivory fingers on his broad palm, and said, in a
lower tone:

“My Chaldean priestess, who says that I am

not as orthodox on optimism as Leibnitz himself?
Don't you know that I am a sort of
latter-day troglodyte, very rarely airing my
pet creeds for the benefit of the public?
That was a wise law of Solon's which declared
`every man infamous who, in seditious or civil
dissensions of the state, remained neuter, and
refused to side with either party;' but I do not
regard it as expedient, or incumbent upon me,
to advertise my individual status on all ethical
schisms. What is it to the public whether I
endorse `Candide' or Leibnitz's `Theodicea?'”

“One thing I certainly do know, with great
regret, that your seeming austerity, your
roughness of manner, renders you very unpopular;
whereas, you should be universally
beloved.”

“Really! have I become a bugbear in my
old age?”

“Not that exactly, sir; but I wish, if it were
possible, that you would not mask your really
kind, generous, sympathizing heart by such
repellent, abrupt conduct in sick-rooms, where
people expect gentleness and consideration on
the part of a physician. I know you are often
annoyed by senseless and ridiculous questions;
but I wish, for your own sake, that you
could be a little more patient with poor, weak
human nature.”

“Child, I am not gregarious; never was. I
touch my hat to the world, and it is welcome
to think just what it chooses of me.”

“No, sir; far from touching your hat, you
stand aloof, scowling at your race, smiling
grimly at the struggling, drowning men and
women around you, as if we were not all one
great family, designed by God to assist and
cheer each other. Every man—”

“Pardon me, Queen; but I am not one of
those deluded, self-complacent human beings
who actually lay the `flattering unction' to
their souls that they were sent into this world
for some particular purpose—some special mission.
I want you distinctly to understand,
child, that I don't consider myself appointed
to any work but that of attending to my own
affairs and taking care of myself.”

“Then you admit yourself a marred, imperfect
block, rejected by the Divine Architect as
unworthy of a place in the grand social temple.
God clothed you with human affections
and sympathies that, in accordance with the
fundamental law of social existence, you might
extend a helping hand to your fellow-creatures.”

He moved restlessly, and his gray shaggy
brows met in a heavy frown.

“I believe, Irene, I am entirely innocent of
any agrarian or socialistic tendency.”

“And so, I trust, am I. But, sir, because I
abhor Brook-Farm, I will not take refuge in
the cave of Trophonius.”

He looked up at her with one of his steely,
probing glances, then the brows unbent, and
he drew her hand caressingly across his
cheek.

“Well, child, we won't quarrel over my
bearishness. If you will keep that hard, frozen
look away from your lips, and smile now and
then as you used to do in your childhood
when I held you on my knee, I will promise to
try and unearth myself, to seal up my gnome
habitation, and buy me a tub which I can
drag after me into the sunlight. Is it a
bargain?”

“That is problematical, Doctor. But it is
getting late, and I wish, if you please, you
would go at once to the Row.”

“Stop! if any good is accomplished among
those semi-savages up yonder, who is to have
the credit? Tell me that.”

“God shall have the thanks; you all the
credit as the worthy instrument, and I as
much of the gratification as I can steal from
you. Are you satisfied with your wages, my
honored Shylock? Good-night.”

“Humph! it is strange what a hold that
queer, motherless child took upon my heart in
her babyhood, and tightens as she grows older.

who will question? Not I, surely; and yet I
know that girl will take hers safely to the
terminus of time, pure, with no smut or smell
of gunpowder. A pearl before swine! But, I
swear, untrampled to the end.”

He shook the ashes from his pipe, put it
away behind the clock, and went down to his
buggy. Before breakfast the following morning,
while Irene was in the poultry-yard feeding
her chickens and pigeons, pheasants and
peafowls, she received a note from Dr. Arnold
containing these few scrawling words:

She put the note in her pocket, and, while
the pigeons fluttered and perched on her
shoulders and arms, cooing and pecking at her
fingers, she stood musing — calculating the
chances of contagion and death if she persisted.
Raising her eyes to the calm blue sky, the
perplexed look passed from her countenance,
and, fully decided regarding her course, she
went in to breakfast. Mr. Huntingdon was
going to a neighboring county with Judge
Peterson, to transact some business connected
with Hugh's estate, and, as the buggy came to
the door, he asked, carelessly:

“What did Cyrus want?”

“He came to bring me a note from the
doctor, concerning some sick people whom I
asked him to see.”

Oh —! John, put my over-coat in the
buggy. Come, Judge, I am ready.”

As he made no inquiry about the sick, she
volunteered no explanation, and he bade her
good-by with manifest cold indifference. She
could not avoid congratulating herself that,
since he must take this journey soon, he had
selected the present occasion to be absent,
for she was well aware that he would violently
oppose her wishes in the matter of the Row.
When Dr. Arnold met her, late in the afternoon
of the same day, at little Johnnie's side,
his surprise and chagrin found vent, first in a
series of oaths, then, scowling at her like some
thunder-cloud with the electricity expended,
he said:

“Do you consider me a stark idiot, or a
shallow quack?”

“Neither, sir, I assure you.”

“Then, if I know anything about my business,
I wrote you the truth this morning, and you
treat my advice with cool contempt. You vex
me beyond all endurance! Do you want to
throw yourself into the jaws of death?”

“No, sir; far from it; but I had incurred
the risk before I was aware that there was
any. Beside, I really do not think I shall take
the fever. I believe a good resolution is a
powerful preventive, and that, you know, I
have.

“The deuce you have! you obstinate, ungovernable
piece of marble! Look here,
Irene, I shall go straight to your father and let
him know the facts. It is my duty, and I mean
to do it.”

“I don't think you will, for he started to
B— county this morning. And now, Doctor,
you may just as well quit scolding me, for
I have made up my mind to nurse Johnnie,
come what will.”

“Yes! I will warrant you have! and you
may as well go make up your shroud, too—for
you will want it, I am thinking.”

“Well, my life, at least, is my own, even if
it should prove the price.”

“Oh! is it, indeed? What has become of
that pretty doctrine you preached to me
yesterday? I thought you belonged to the
whole human fraternity? Your life yours,
indeed!”

“You forget, Doctor; `greater love hath no
man than this, that he lay down his life for his
friends.'”

She slipped her hand into his, and looked
up, smiling and calm, into his harsh, swarthy
face.

“My child, you made a mistake; your life
belongs to me, for I saved it in your infancy.
I cradled you in my arms, lest death should
snatch you. I have a better right to you than
anybody else in this world. I don't want to
see you die; I wish to go first.”

“I know what I owe you, Doctor; but I am
not going to die, and you have scolded me
enough for one time. Do make peace.”

“Remember, I warned you, and you would
not heed.”

From that hour she kept faithful vigil in No.
13 — passing continually from one bedside to
another. Susan's attack proved comparatively
light, and she was soon pronounced convalescent;
but little Johnnie was desperately ill,
and for several nights Irene sat at his pillow,
fearing that every hour would be his last.
While his delirium was at its height, Hester
was taken violently, and on the morning when
Irene felt that her labor was not in vain and
that the boy would get well, his little sister,
whom she had nursed quite as assiduously,
grew rapidly worse, and died at noon. As is
frequently observed in such diseases, this
increased in virulence with every new case.
It spread with astonishing celerity through the
Row, baffling the efforts of the best physicians
in W—; and finally, the day after Hester's
death, as Irene sat trying to comfort the
poor mother, a neighbor came in, exclaiming:

“Oh, Miss Irene! Philip Martin is down,
too. He caught the fever from his mother,
and his father says won't you please come
over?”

She went promptly, though so wearied she
could scarcely stand, and took a seat by the
bed where tossed the poor boy in whom she
had taken such an interest since the accident
which crushed his leg in the machinery, and
rendered him a temporary cripple.

“He has been talking about you constantly,
Miss Irene, and calling for you. Philip, my
son, here is Miss Irene.”

He smiled and turned, but there was no
recognition in the hot eyes, and after an instant
he muttered on incoherently.

“You must go home, Miss Huntingdon;
you are worn out. His father can watch him
till his mother gets stronger,” said Dr. Brandon,
who was fully acquainted with her unremitting
attendance at the next house.

“No, I must stay with Philip; perhaps he
will know me when he wakes.”

A hope doomed to disappointment, for he
raved for four days and nights, calling frantically
for the serene, sad woman who sat at
his pillow, bending over him and laying her
cold hand on his scorched brow. On the fifth
day, being free from fever and utterly prostrated,
he seemed sinking rapidly; but she kept
her fingers on his pulse, and, without waiting
for the doctor's advice, administered powerful
stimulants. So passed two hours of painful
anxiety; then Philip opened his eyes languidly,
and looked at her.

“Philip, do you know me?”

“Yes—Miss Irene.”

She sank back as if some strong supporting
hand had suddenly been withdrawn from her;
and, observing that she looked ghastly, Mr.
Martin hastily brought her a glass of water.
Just then Dr. Brandon entered, and examined
his patient with evident surprise.

“What have you done to him, Miss Huntingdon?”

“Since daylight I have been giving him
ammonia and brandy; his pulse was so feeble
and thready I thought he needed it, and I was
afraid to wait for you.”

“Right! and you saved his life by it. I
could not get here any earlier, and if you had
delayed it until I came it would probably
have been too late. You may call him your
patient after this.”

She waited no longer, but staggered to the
door; and Andrew, seeing how faint she was,
came to meet her, and led her to the carriage.
The ten days of watching had told upon her;
and when she reached home, and Nellie brought
her wrapper and unlaced her shoes, she fell
back on her lounge in a heavy, death-like
sleep. Mr. Huntingdon had been expected
two days before, but failed to arrive at the
time designated; and, having her fears fully
aroused, Nellie despatched a messenger for
Dr. Arnold.