“And there is nothing I can do for you, Jean?’

“Nothing, M’sieur.”

At the door Philip turned.

“I have got a grip on myself now, Jean,” he said.  “I won’t fail you.  I’ll do as you say.  But remember, we are to have the fight at the end!”

In his room he sat up for a time and smoked.  Then he went to bed.  Half a dozen times during the night he awoke from a restless slumber.  Twice he struck a match to look at his watch.  It was still dark when he got up and dressed.  From five until six he tried to read.  He was delighted when Metoosin came to the door and told him that breakfast would be ready in half an hour.  This gave him just time to shave.

He expected to eat alone with Adare again this morning, and his heart jumped with both surprise and joy when Josephine came out into the hall to meet him.  She was very pale.  Her eyes told him that she had passed a sleepless night.  But she was smiling bravely, and when she offered him her hand he caught her suddenly in his arms and held her close to his breast while he kissed her lips, and then her shining hair.

“Philip!” she protested.  “Philip—­”

He laughed softly, and for a moment his face was close against hers.

“My brave little darling!  I understand,” he whispered.  “I know what a night you’ve had.  But there’s nothing to fear.  Nothing shall harm you.  Nothing shall harm you, nothing, nothing!”

She drew away from him gently, and there was a mist in her eyes.  But he had brought a bit of colour into her face.  And there was a glow behind the tears.  Then, her lip quivering, she caught his arm.

“Philip, the baby is sick—­and I am afraid.  I haven’t told father.  Come!”

He went with her to the room at the end of the hall.  The Indian woman was crooning softly over a cradle.  She fell silent as Josephine and Philip entered, and they bent over the little flushed face on the pillow.  Its breath came tightly, gaspingly, and Josephine clutched Philip’s hand, and her voice broke in a sob.

“Feel, Philip—­its little face—­the fever—­”

“You must call your mother and father,” he said after a moment.  “Why haven’t you done this before, Josephine?”

“The fever came on suddenly—­within the last half hour,” she whispered tensely.  “And I wanted you to tell me what to do, Philip.  Shall I call them—­now?”

He nodded.

“Yes.”

In an instant she was out of the room.  A few moments later she returned, followed by Adare and his wife.  Philip was startled by the look that came into Miriam’s face as she fell on her knees beside the cradle.  She was ghastly white.  Dumbly Adare stood and gazed down on the little human mite he had grown to worship.  And then there came through his beard a great broken breath that was half a sob.

Josephine lay her cheek against his arm for a moment, and said: 

“You and Philip go to breakfast, Mon Pere.  I am going to give the baby some of the medicine the Churchill doctor left with me.  I was frightened at first.  But I’m not now.  Mother and I will have him out of the fever shortly.”