Dr. Fisher met them at the door.  Polly never forgot the long, slow terror that clutched at her heart as she scanned his face while he took the child out of the arms that now yielded up their burden.  And everything turned dark before her eyes—­Was Phronsie dead?

But there was Mamsie.  And Polly caught her breath, beat back the faintness, and helped to lay Phronsie on the big bed.

“Clearly I have had nothing to do with it,” said Mrs. Chatterton to herself, stumbling into a room at the other end of the hall.  But her face was gray, and she found herself picking nervously at the folds of lace at her throat.  “The child went up there, as all children will, to explore.  I shall say nothing about it—­nothing whatever.  Oh! how is she?” grasping blindly at Jasper as he rushed by the door.

“Still unconscious”—­

“Stuff and—­oh! well,” muttering on.  “She’ll probably come to.  Children can bear a little confinement; an hour or two doesn’t matter with them—­ Hortense!” aloud, “bring me my sal volatile.  Dear me! this is telling on my nerves.”  She caught sight of her face in the long mirror opposite, and shivered to see how ghastly it was.  “Where is the girl?  Hortense, I say, come here this instant!”

A maid, summoned by her cries, put her head in the door.  “Hadn’t you better go into your own room, Mrs. Chatterton?” she said, in pity at the shaking figure and blanched face.

“No—­no,” she sharply repulsed her.  “Bring Hortense—­where is that girl?” she demanded passionately.

“She’s crying,” said the maid, her own eyes filling with tears.  “I’ll help you to your room.”

“Crying?” Madame Chatterton shrieked.  “She’s paid to take care of me; what right has she to think of anything else?”

“She says she was cross to Phronsie once—­though I don’t see how she could be, and—­and—­now that she’s going to die, she”—­and the maid burst into tears and threw her apron over her face.

“Die—­she shan’t!  What utter nonsense everybody does talk in this house!” Madame Chatterton seized her arm, the slender fingers tightening around the young muscles, and shook her fiercely.

The maid roused by her pain out of her tears looked in affright into the gray face above her.  “Let me go,” she cried.  “Oh! madame, you hurt me.”

“Give me air,” said Madame Chatterton, her fingers relaxing, and making a great effort not to fall.  “Help me over to the window, and open it, girl”—­and leaning heavily on the slight figure, she managed to get across the room.

“There—­now,” drawing a heavy breath as she sank into a chair and thrust her ashen face out over the sill, “do you go and find out how the child is.  And come back and tell me at once.”

“Madame, I’m afraid to leave you alone,” said the girl, looking at her.

“Afraid?  I’m not so old but that I can take care of myself,” said Mrs. Chatterton with a short laugh.  “Go and do as I tell you,” stamping her foot.