She led the way to Phebe’s room, and he followed slowly, laying his burden carefully down on the bed and arranging the pillows under her head with all of a woman’s gentleness of touch.

“Now go for the doctor,” ordered Gerald, turning to the bureau to light the candles.  “Dr. Dennis.  If he is out, Dr. Harrison.  Only find some one immediately.”

Denham lingered an instant, bending down over the bed.

“I thought we had lost you to-night, Phebe,” he said, so low the words were but just audible.  “God be thanked if only that you are still here!” And stooping nearer yet he added:  “We could not let you go, dear child.”

Gerald came anxiously back to the bedside as he left the room.  “Are you in much pain now?” she asked, lifting off the heavy braid that lay across Phebe’s bosom like a great rope of loosely twisted silk.  “You do not think you are badly hurt, do you, dear?”

Phebe looked up at her, smiling strangely.

“Oh, Gerald,” she whispered, while two big tears rolled slowly down on to the pillow, “I wish I might die to-night!  I don’t think I can ever be so happy again!”

“Nonsense!” said Gerald, with utmost sternness.  “Don’t talk about dying.  I won’t allow it.”  And then she suddenly put down her head beside Phebe’s, and burst into tears.

CHAPTER VIII.

GERALD OBEYS ORDERS.

In an incredibly short time Denham brought back not only Dr. Dennis, whom he had caught just setting out for a stolen game of whist with Mr. Upjohn, during the absence of that gentleman’s wife at prayer-meeting, but also Soeur Angelique, whose mere presence in a sick-room was more than half the cure.  And then he sat in the dark, disordered room below, impatiently enough, anxiously waiting for news from Phebe.  The time seemed to him interminable before at last the door opened, and Gerald entered, bearing a lamp.  The vivid light, flung so full upon her, showed traces of passionate weeping; and her white dress all scorched and burned and hopelessly ruined, with the rich lace hanging in shreds from the sleeves, made her a startling contrast indeed to the usually calm, self-possessed, perfectly-dressed Gerald Vernor.

Denham sprang forward to take the heavy lamp from her.  “How is she, please?”

Gerald started.  “What, you here?”

“Did you think I could leave till I knew?”

“Oh, of course not, I had forgotten you.  I was only thinking of Phebe.”

“But how is she?”

“Better.  She is burned about the shoulders and a little on the arms, but not seriously, and nothing that will disfigure.  It is so fortunate.  The doctor is still with her, but she is much easier now, and there is nothing to fear.”

“Ah, what a relief!  It seemed as if I should never hear.  She is really in no danger then?”

“None.”

“Thank God!  As you came in you looked so distressed I feared—­”