“Oh!  I’ve killed him,” they finally made out.

“Who—­who?  Oh, Van! who?”

“Joey,” screamed Van, bending over a white heap on the floor.  “Oh! make him get up.  Oh!  I’ve killed him.”

The mask was hanging by one end from his white face, and and his eyes protruded wildly.  Up flew another figure adorned with a second black mask.

“No, no, it was I,” and Percy rushed forward with an “Oh, Joel, Joel!”

Somebody lighted the gas, that flashed suddenly over the terrified group, and somebody else lifted the heap from the corner.  And as they did so, Joel stirred and opened his eyes.

“Don’t make such a fuss,” he said crossly.  One hand had gripped the sleeve of his night-dress, trying to hold it up in a little wad on the shoulder, the blood pouring down the arm.  At sight of this, Van collapsed and slid to the floor.

“Don’t frighten Mamsie,” said Joel, his head drooping, despite his efforts to hold it up.  “I’m all right; nothing but a scratch.  Ugh! let me be, will you?” to Mr. Whitney and Jasper, who were trying to support him.

And Mother Fisher, for the first time since the children had known her, lost her self-control.

“Oh, Joey! and mother was cross to you,” she could only sob as she reached him.

Polly, at a nod from the little doctor’s night-cap and a few hurried words, ran as in a dream for the case of instruments in his bedroom.

“All right, Mamsie!” exclaimed Joel in surprise, and trying to stagger to his feet.

“Good heavens and earth!” cried old Mr. King, approaching.  “What? oh! it’s monstrous—­Joel!”

“Och, murther!” Thomas sidled along the edge of the group, rolling fearful eyes at them, and repeating over and over, “I’ve shot that boy—­ that boy!”

All this occupied but an instant, and Joel was laid on his bed, and the wound which proved to be only a flesh one, the ball cutting a little furrow as it grazed the shoulder, was dressed, and everybody drew a long breath.  “Tell Van that I’m all right,” Joel kept saying all the time.

Polly undertook to do this.

“Van—­Van!” she cried, running out into the hall to lay a shaking hand on his arm, where he lay on the floor.  “Joel sent me to say that he is all right.”

“Polly, I’ve killed him!” Van thrust his head up suddenly and looked at her, with wild eyes.  “I have—­don’t speak to me, or look at me.  I’ve killed Joel!”

“Take off this dreadful thing,” said Polly with a shiver, and kneeling down, she seized the strings that tied the mask.  “O dear! it’s all in a knot.  Wait, I’ll get the scissors,” and she found her feet, and ran off to her room.

“Now you are all right;” he gave a little sob as the mask tumbled off.  “Oh! how could you?” she wanted to say, but Van’s distress was too dreadful for anything but comfort.

“Don’t you see,” said Polly, sitting down on the floor and cuddling up his head in her lap, “that Joel is really all right now?  Suppose we hadn’t a Father Fisher who was a doctor, what should we do then?” and she even managed a faint laugh.