The young girl rejoined him presently with troubled eyes.  Cissy was worse, and only intermittently conscious, but had asked to see him.  It was a short flight of stairs to the bedroom, but before he reached it Bob’s heart beat faster than it had in any mountain climb.  In one corner of the plainly furnished room stood a small truckle bed, and in it lay the invalid.  It needed but a single glance at her flushed face in its aureole of yellow hair to recognize the likeness to Jimmy, although, added to that strange refinement produced by suffering, there was a spiritual exaltation in the child’s look—­possibly from delirium—­that awed and frightened him; an awful feeling that he could not lie to this hopeless creature took possession of him, and his step faltered.  But she lifted her small arms pathetically towards him as if she divined his trouble, and he sank on his knees beside her.  With a tiny finger curled around his long mustache, she lay there silent.  Her face was full of trustfulness, happiness, and consciousness—­but she spoke no word.

There was a pause, and Falloner, slightly lifting his head without disturbing that faintly clasping finger, beckoned Miss Boutelle to his side.  “Can you drive?” he said, in a low voice.

“Yes.”

“Take my sleigh and get the best doctor in town to come here at once.  Bring him with you if you can; if he can’t come at once, drive home yourself.  I will stay here.”

“But”—­hesitated Miss Boutelle.

“I will stay here,” he repeated.

The door closed on the young girl, and Falloner, still bending over the child, presently heard the sleigh-bells pass away in the storm.  He still sat with his bent head, held by the tiny clasp of those thin fingers.  But the child’s eyes were fixed so intently upon him that Mrs. Ricketts leaned over the strangely-assorted pair and said—­

“It’s your brother Dick, dearie.  Don’t you know him?”

The child’s lips moved faintly.  “Dick’s dead,” she whispered.

“She’s wandering,” said Mrs. Ricketts.  “Speak to her.”  But Bob, with his eyes on the child’s, lifted a protesting hand.  The little sufferer’s lips moved again.  “It isn’t Dick—­it’s the angel God sent to tell me.”

She spoke no more.  And when Miss Boutelle returned with the doctor she was beyond the reach of finite voices.  Falloner would have remained all night with them, but he could see that his presence in the contracted household was not desired.  Even his offer to take Jimmy with him to the hotel was declined, and at midnight he returned alone.