“Is there any hope?” he asked, when Cherry had gone away on one of the restless, unnecessary journeys with which she was filling the endless hours.  One man shook his head, and in the silence they heard Martin groan.

“It is possible he may weather it, of course,” the older man said, doubtfully.  “He is coming out of that first stupor, and we may be able to tell better in a short time.  The fact that he is living at all indicates a tremendous vitality.”

Thoughtfully and gravely they exchanged technical phrases.  Cherry’s Chinese boy brought in a tray, and both the other men ate and drank.  Peter nodded a negative without a change of expression, but presently he roused himself to replenish the fire.  The clock ticked and ticked in the stillness.

Cherry came to the door to say “Doctor!” on a burst of tears.  The physicians departed at once to the study, and Peter was immediately summoned to assist them in handling the big frame of the patient.  Martin was thoroughly conscious now; his face chalk white.  Cherry, agonized, knelt beside the bed, her frightened eyes moving from face to face.

There was a brief consultation, then Cherry and Peter were banished.

“Don’t worry, dear,” said one of the nurses, coming out of the sick-room.  “It’s just that Doctor Henry thinks he would be more comfortable if we could get the arm and leg set!  You see, now that he’s conscious and is running just a little temperature—­”

“Much fever?” Cherry asked, sharply.

“Oh, nothing at all, dear!” the nurse hastened to say.  “The only thing is, that setting the arm and leg will ease the pain and save his strength.”  She bustled off for basins, bandages, and hot water.  In the silence Martin’s groans occasionally broke.

Cherry, her eyes on the study door, stood biting her fingers in frenzy.  When from the sound of Martin’s voice she realized that he was being hurt, she looked at Peter in agony.

“Oh, why do they do that—­why do they do that?  Torturing him for nothing!” he heard her whisper.  “Go in and—­go in and do something!” she urged, incoherently.

But the sounds had stopped, and there was a blessed interval of silence.  The clock on the mantel sounded eight in swift, silvery strokes, and presently a sympathetic nurse came silently in with a tray holding two cups of hot soup.  Cherry shut her eyes and shook her head.

“Please, Cherry—­you need it!” Peter pleaded, carrying her a smoking cup.  She protested again with a gesture, looked wearily into his eyes, and drank the soup docilely, like a child.

“You, too, Peter!” she said, suddenly rousing herself.  Peter gulped down his own cupful, waved away the sandwiches that were on the tray, and took the chair opposite the one in which Cherry was sitting.

The clock presently struck the half-hour, but neither spoke.  Cherry’s pallor, her air of fatigue and bewilderment, and the familiar setting of the old environment made her seem a child again.  Peter watched her with a confused sense that the whole frightful day had been a dream.  Once she looked up and met his eyes.