Then my thoughts flew off to Mrs. Erveng,—how surly and disagreeable I had behaved to her! Not once had I offered her the slightest attention; instead, I had got out of her way at every chance. I had called this being very sincere, honest, above deceit; but it did not seem like that to me now. And there was Hilliard,—I had laughed at him, been rude to him, despised him for being a coward, I was so sure of my own courage; and what was I now? I was ashamed—ashamed! Oh, how my heart ached!

Then I began saying my prayers. The water was up to my waist now; it came with such force that it swayed me from side to side, and beat me against the rock to which I still clung. My fingers were cramped by my tight grip; the next wave, or perhaps the next to that, would sweep me off—away—to death!

I prayed from my very heart, with all my strength and soul, and it seemed as if the other things—the waves, the storm, the terrible death—grew fainter; a feeling came to me that I was speaking right into God's ear—that He was very near to me.

Somewhere out of the roar and awfulness of the storm came a human voice,—a cry: "Betty! Betty! hold on! hold on! I can save you—only hold on!" And when I opened my eyes, there was a boat coming nearer and nearer, dancing on the top of the waves like a cockle shell, and in it was Hilliard!

"I can't—come—too—close," he shouted. "Jump—with—the—next—wave."

I understood; and with the next receding wave I leaped into the water,—a wild plunge, scarcely seeing where I was going.

But Hilliard's hands caught me and hauled me into the boat, where I sank down, and lay huddled up, confused, and trembling so that I couldn't speak. Hilliard threw something over me,—the rain was coming down in torrents,—and then he pulled with all his might for the shore.

Presently my senses began to come back; I knew what a terrible strain it must be to row in such a storm,—though fortunately the tide was with us,—and he had come out in it for me. I felt I ought to take my share of the work. "I—can—row. Let—me—take—an—oar," I said slowly, sitting up.

"Not an oar,—I need both," Hilliard answered decidedly; then he added persuasively, "Be a good girl, Betty, and just keep in the bottom of the boat."

I saw that he was rowing in his shirt sleeves,—his coat was over me,—and his hat was gone; the rain was pouring down on his bare head. His face was very pale and set,—stern looking,—and the veins in his forehead were standing out like cords as he strained every nerve at the oars.

"I'm going for one of the coves," he shouted to me presently, "where I can run her aground."

Again and again we were tossed back by the receding waves; but at last we shot into the cove, and I heard the keel grating on the rocky beach. In an instant Hilliard was overboard, and had pulled the boat up on the sand, out of reach of the highest wave. As he helped me on to the beach, I looked up in his white face, and such a sense of what he had endured for me rushed over me that I couldn't get the words out fast enough.

I threw my hands out and caught hold of his shoulders: "Oh, Hilliard Erveng, you are a brave boy!" I cried out, choking up. "You are no coward; you are brave—brave! and I have been a mean, contemptible, conceited, stuck-up girl." I think I shook him a little; I was in such earnest that I hardly knew what I was doing.

The rain had plastered Hilliard's hair flat to his head, and washed it into funny little points on his forehead, and there were raindrops pouring down his face; but his mouth was smiling, and his eyes were wide open and shining. He laid his hands over mine as they rested on his shoulders. "Thank God for to-day, Betty, thank God!" he said, in a glad, excited way. "He has saved your life, and I am no longer a coward; I am no longer afraid—see!" As the lightning flashed over us he lifted his head and faced it, with lips that quivered a little, but also with unflinching eyes. "Doctor Emmons always said that I would be cured of my dread could I but face one thunder storm throughout," he added, still with that joyous ring in his voice. "And now I've done it! I've done it; I am free!"

"Oh! I am so glad! so very thankful!" I began, and then broke down and burst into a violent fit of crying.

I couldn't stop crying, though I did try hard to control my tears; and my knees shook so that I could hardly walk. Hilliard almost carried me along until we met Jim the coachman and Mr. Erveng on the beach. Mr. Erveng had just got home, and heard that Hilliard and I were out in the storm. Then between them they got me to the house, where Mrs. Erveng and Alice and her mother were anxiously waiting for us.

How glad they were to see us! and how they all kissed and hugged me! Mrs. Erveng took me right into her arms.

Everybody began talking at once. I heard Alice say, "As soon as we missed you, and Dillon said she had seen you walking toward that part of the beach, Hilliard declared you were on the rock,—he seemed to guess it. And he was off for the boat like a flash,—he wouldn't even wait for Jim; he said every minute was precious—"

I lost the rest; a horrid rushing noise came in my ears, everything got black before me, and I fainted, for the very first time in my life.

* * * * *

It is now nearly a week since all this happened, and to-morrow I am going home—to the Cottage. I was so stiff and tired from the beating of the waves that Mrs. Erveng kept me in bed for several days, and telegraphed the family not to expect me until Thursday; otherwise neither Hilliard nor I have suffered from our drenching in that awful storm. Mrs. Endicott and Alice are going as far as New York with me, and there Phil will meet me and take me home.

I shall be very glad to be with my own dear ones again,—it seems an age since I saw them; and I long to talk to Nannie, and tell her everything. Still, now, I'm not sorry that I came here. I think that I shall never forget my visit to Endicott Beach.



XIX.

HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER.

TOLD BY JACK.

Nora was playing a sweet, wild Hungarian melody on the piano, the boys were on the stoop talking to Chad,—every now and then the sound of their voices came in through the open windows,—and I sat under the drawing-room chandelier reading. Presently Chad came in, and, leaning on the piano, began talking to Nora in a low tone; and without stopping her music, she talked back, in the same tone of voice.



The story I was reading was A 1, and I'd got to a very thrilling place, where the boy comes face to face with an infuriated tiger, when I heard something said outside that just took all the interest out of my book. Phil was speaking sharply,—I wondered Nora and Chad didn't hear him. "What's the matter with you?" he flared out. "I declare, you're getting as fussy as an old cat! I won't stand the way you're watching me, and you've just got to drop it. I'm not a baby, to be tied to anybody's apron-strings! I'll go and come as I please."

I didn't hear what Fee said to this, but Phil's answer to it was quite loud: "Yes, I am going,—to-night, and to-morrow night, and any other night I please. The idea of a fellow of my age not being able to go out for a walk without asking your permission!"



"When you talk like that you are downright silly!" broke in Felix. I could tell by his voice he was trying hard to control his temper. "'Tisn't the going out that anybody objects to; it's the person you're going with. You know very well, Phil, that he isn't the sort of fellow to do you any good. I sized him up the very first time we saw him, and I still hold to my opinion,—he's a b-a-d lot."

"A-c-h! you make me tired!" exclaimed Phil,—that's a favourite expression of his when he's cornered,—and leaning in through the window, he called, "See here, Chad; any time to-night!"

"Yes, A'm coming," Chad called back, and bidding Nora good-night, he went out; a minute after I heard their steps as Phil and he ran down the stoop and passed by the drawing-room windows.

Laying my book down quietly and very quickly, I ran out on the stoop. Fee sat there with his elbows on his knees, and his chin resting on his clasped hands, staring at nothing. Dropping down beside him, I slipped my hand in his arm and squeezed it to me. "I heard Phil," I said. "I'm awfully sorry he would go."

"Yes," Fee answered, but in a way that I knew he wasn't thinking of what he was saying.

We sat quiet for a little while, then Felix turned suddenly and laid his hand on my knee. "Jack," he said earnestly, "I've made up my mind about something that's been bothering me since last night. What I'm going to do may turn out right, it may turn out wrong,—God only knows; but it seems right to me, and I'm going to try it. I dread it, though,—just dread it. If I hadn't promised—" He broke off abruptly, and turned his head away. I wanted to say something to him, but I couldn't think of a thing.

In a minute Felix began again. "Tell me honestly, Jack," he said, "do you think that Phil cares as much for me as he used to,—I mean before that fellow Chad came?"

"Why, Fee!" I exclaimed, "of course he loves you just as well; I know he does,—we all love you dearly!" Do you know, it just hurt me to have him think Phil could let a person like Chad come between them. Of course, as nurse says, we have our ups and downs; we get mad with one another sometimes, and all that, you know; but still we do love one another dearly, and we'd stand up for the different ones like everything, if need be. We've always been very proud of Fee,—he's so clever, you see; but since that night that I'm going to tell you about, I just think my brother Felix is the noblest, bravest, truest boy in the world! I've always loved Fee very dearly; but now,—well, now I have a feeling that I would be willing to give my life for him. Poor old Fee!

When I said that so positively about Phil's caring, I could see Fee was pleased; his face brightened up. "Well, perhaps he does," he said. "He's been very cranky lately, and sharp to me,—in fact to everybody; but I have a feeling that that's because he isn't really satisfied with the way he's acting. I tell you, Jack, Phil's a good fellow,"—Fee pounded his hand down on his knee as he spoke; "it isn't easy for him to do wrong. And he isn't up to Chad's tricks, or the set he's got him into. They've flattered Phil first, and that has turned his head; and then they've laughed at him for not doing the things they do, and that's nettled him,—until they've got him all their way. I know what they are,—I can see through their cunning; but Phil isn't so sharp. There are people in this world, Jack, so contemptible and wicked that they hate to have anybody better than they are themselves, and Chad and his crowd belong to that class. If I'd been able to go about with Phil as I used to, they'd never have had the chance to get hold of him. And as it is, now that I've found out their game, I'm going to stop the whole business, and bring Phil to his senses. He's too fine a fellow for those rascals to spoil. I'll stop it—I'll stop it, no matter what it costs me!"

Oh, how often I've thought of those words since that dreadful night! And yet, I have a feeling that even if he had known, he would have gone—I tell you, there isn't another boy in all the world like our Felix!

Fee's voice was shaking, and he got on his feet as if he were going to start that very minute; but before I could say anything he began again: "I've got a plan,—not a very good one, I must confess, but it's the best I can think of, and it may work; that is, if Phil has as much of the old feeling for me as you think, Jack: I'm building a good deal on that,—I hope I won't get left. He may turn obstinate,—you know he can be a very donkey sometimes; and I suppose he'll get furiously mad. Well, I'll have to stand that,—if only he doesn't blaze out at me before those cads; that would cut me awfully. But that I'll have to risk; he's worth it. Now, Jack, I want you to help me,—to go somewhere with me, I mean. I'm sorry to have to ask this, for it's no place for a youngster like you; but I think you're one of the kind that won't be hurt by such things, Rosebud,"—putting his hand on my arm,—"and I'm so unsteady on my feet that I am afraid I really couldn't get along alone. Get your hat—and my cane."

In a minute I had both, and we went down the stoop together. At the foot of the steps Fee stopped, and taking off his hat, began pushing his hair back off his forehead. I could see he was nervous. "Suppose this shouldn't be the right thing that I'm going to do; suppose it should make matters worse," he said undecidedly, almost irritably. "Now, if Nannie were here—I haven't a creature to advise me!"

"I think you're doing right, Fee," I began. I didn't remember until afterward that I really didn't know what his plan was; but I don't think he heard what I said, for he went on in a low tone, as if he were talking to himself: "Suppose he gets furiously angry, and pitches into me before those low fellows,—you never know what Phil's going to say when he gets mad,—and will not come home with me, what'll I do then? It's a risk. And if this plan fails, I don't know what else to do. Had I better just let things drift along as they are until we get in the country, and then speak to him? I dread a row before that crowd; they'd just set him up against me. And yet—a week more of nights to come home as he did last night, and the night before that—ought I to let that go on? What would she say to do?"

He stood with his head bent, thinking,—his hat and cane in one hand, and holding on to the stone newel-post with the other. And as we waited the gay strains of Nora's waltz came to us through the windows; since that night I just hate to hear her play that piece.

Presently Felix looked up at me with the faintest little smile. "I came pretty near asking you to write me down a coward, Jack," he said; "but I'm all right again. Now for your part of this affair: If Phil will come back with me, as I hope, you'll have to make your way home alone, without letting him know of your being there. Try and manage it. If he gets ugly, and will not leave that crowd, why, then we—you and I—'ll have to travel back as we went. You must judge for yourself, Rosebud, whether to go, or to stay for me; I'll have enough to do, you know, to manage Phil. Apart from that, have as little to do in the matter as possible; ask no questions, speak to no one, and see and hear no more than you can help. All right?"

"Yes," I answered quickly, "and I only wish I could do more for you, Fee."

Felix put his hand on my shoulder for a rest, as he usually did when we walked together. "You've been a real comfort to me, Jack, since Nannie went away," he said. I tell you that meant lots from him, and I knew it; I just put up my hand and squeezed Fee's fingers as they rested on my coat; then we started off.

On Fee's account we walked very slowly; but after a while we came to a house with a very low stoop,—just a step or two from the ground. There were handsome glass doors to the vestibule, and the rather small hall was brilliantly lighted up. I fancied that the man who opened the door looked at me as if he thought I had no business there; but Felix marched right by him and stepped into the elevator, and of course I followed.

"Mr. Whitcombe," said Fee; and then I knew that we were in the apartment house where Chad has his "bachelor quarters."

"Turn to your left," said the elevator man, as he let us out. We did so, and just as we got opposite the door with the big silver knob and old bronze knocker that Chad had told us he brought from Europe, it opened, and some one came out. Well, truly, he didn't look any older than fifteen,—two years older than I am, mind you,—but if he didn't have on a long-tailed evening coat, an awfully high stand-up collar, and a tall silk hat! You can't think what a queer figure he was,—like a caricature.

Before he could shut the door, Felix lifted his hat, and then put out his hand quickly. "Allow me," he said politely; and the next moment we were in Chad's hall, with his front door closed behind us.

At the other end of this hall was a room very brightly lighted; the portiere was pushed almost entirely aside, and we could see some young fellows seated round a table. Nearly all had cigars or cigarettes in their mouths,—Phil, too; the room was just thick with smoke, and they were playing cards.

"Sit where they can't see you," Fee whispered to me; "and if you find Phil will go home with me, just slide out without letting him know of your being here. Oh, Jack, if I can only succeed!" He gave my hand a little squeeze—though it was a warm evening, his fingers were cold—and then walked up the hall and stood in the doorway of Chad's room.

"Hullo! you! Oh—aw—come in—aw—glad to see you! Take a chair," Chad said, in a tone of voice that told he was taken all aback; while Phil was so startled that he dropped his cigarette and called out roughly, "What the mischief are you doing here?"

Of course they all looked at Felix; but he answered carelessly, "Oh, I thought I'd accept a long-standing invitation,"—with a little bow toward Chad,—"and drop in for a while."

"Oh, certainly, certainly—aw—glad to see you!" exclaimed Chad.

"Who's with you?" demanded Phil; but Fee didn't answer him: he just went forward and took the place that one of the fellows made between himself and Phil. And then Chad began introducing Felix to the others.

From where I sat on the hat-rack settle,—it was the most shielded place in the hall, and near the door,—I had a full view of the people sitting on one side of the table, and particularly of Felix and Phil, who were almost directly under the glare of the light. Fee's face was as white as marble, except a red spot on each cheek, and there was a delicate look about his eyes and temples, and round his mouth, that I hadn't noticed before. Somehow his fine, regular features and splendid, broad white forehead made me think of the head of the Young Augustus that the Unsworths have.

But Phil certainly didn't look like any marble statue; his face was very red and cross, and he was scowling until his eyebrows made a thick black line above his eyes. He was disagreeable, too,—rough and quarrelsome, something like that night when he came home so late, and hurt my feelings. When, in reply to an invitation from Chad, Felix said he would join the game, Phil sung out in a kind of ordering tone, "What's the sense of spoiling the fun for everybody? You know nothing about cards; why don't you look on?"

"Because I prefer playing," answered Fee, smiling; "it's the quickest and surest way of learning, I believe,"—with a glance round the company. "What are the stakes?"

He drew a handful of money from his pocket, and laid it before him on the table.

"Don't make an ass of yourself, Felix!" Phil exclaimed angrily, laying a hand right over the little pile of silver. "We're not fooling here; we're playing in dead earnest, and you will lose every cent of your money."

Some of the fellows snickered, and one called out sharply, "Look out what you're saying, Rose."

I saw the red spots on Fee's cheeks grow brighter. "I am going to play," he said quietly, but looking Phil steadily in the eyes; "so please don't interfere."

"Evidently you've never learned that 'consistency is a jewel'!" Phil retorted with a sneer. I suppose he was thinking of what Fee had said that evening on the stoop.

But Felix only answered good-naturedly, "Oh, yes, I have; that used to be one of our copy-book axioms," and then they all began to play.

Well, Phil's face was a study,—it grew blacker and blacker as the game went on, and Fee kept losing; and he got very disagreeable,—trying to chaff Felix, almost as if he wanted to make him mad. But Fee just turned it off as pleasantly as he could. Those fellows made it ever so much harder, though; they got off the silliest speeches, and then roared with laughter over them, as if they were jokes. And, in a sly kind of way, they egged Phil on to quarrel with Fee,—laughing at all his speeches, and pretending that they thought Phil was afraid of Felix. And Chad joined in, I could hear his affected laugh and drawl above all the others; I felt how that must cut Fee!

There were some decanters and glasses on a side table, and every now and then Chad urged his friends to drink, and he would get up and wait on them. Felix refused every time, and Phil did too at first, until those common fellows began to twit him about it,—as much as saying that he was afraid to take anything 'cause Fee would "go home and tell on him." What did Phil do then—the silly fellow! 'twas just what they wanted—but snatch up a glass and swallow down a lot of that vile stuff! Well, I was so mad with Phil! I'd have liked to go right in and punch him. Felix never said a word ('twouldn't have done the least good,—Phil can be like a mule sometimes); he just sat there with his lips pressed tight together, looking down at the cards he held in his hands.

After that Phil's face got awfully red, and how his tongue did run! Real ugly things he said, too, and perfectly regardless who he said them to. And those fellows got very boisterous, and began again trying to tease our boys. I was so afraid there'd be a row; and there surely would have been, if Felix hadn't just worked as he did to prevent it. I tell you now, it was awfully hard to sit out there in that hall and hear those fellows carrying on against my brothers,—you see I was so near I couldn't help it, I just had to hear everything,—and not be able to take their part.

Fee kept getting whiter and whiter, the spots on his cheeks redder and redder; and by and by such a tired look came in his face that I got real worked up. I felt as if I must go in and just pitch right into those fellows. Almost before I knew it, I'd got up and gone a step or two in the hall, when suddenly Phil dashed his cards down on the table, and got on his feet. "I'm going home!" he declared. "Are you coming?" turning to Felix.

"You sha'n't go!" "Oh, don't go!" "You've got to finish the game," several called out. But Phil just repeated doggedly, "I'm going home! Are you coming or not, Felix?"

This was just what Fee wanted,—I knew how glad and thankful he must feel. But all he said was, "Yes, I'll go with you, if our host will excuse us," rising as he spoke and nodding his head toward Chad.

Those unmannerly things burst out laughing, as if this were a great joke; and with a smothered exclamation, Phil started for the door, knocking over a chair as he went.

Well, if you had seen me scoot down that hall and out of the door! I simply flew, and barely got round the corner in the shadow, when Phil and Felix came along. Phil looked like a thundercloud, and instead of leaning on his arm, Fee just had hold of a piece of Phil's sleeve. They marched along in dead silence, and got into the elevator.

I hung around a little, until I was sure they were out of the way, then I went down; the elevator man looked harder than ever at me,—I suppose he wondered why I hadn't gone with Fee,—but I pretended I didn't notice.

I'd never been out very late alone before, and at first it seemed queer; but I hurried, so that I soon forgot all about that. You see I wanted to get home before the boys did, and yet I had to look out that I didn't run across them.

I hadn't thought of the time at Chad's; but we must have been there a good while, for when I got to the house the drawing-room windows were closed, and so was the front door. I don't know what I'd have done if cook hadn't come to close the basement door just as I got to our stoop, and I slipped in that way. "Master Jack!" she cried out, holding up her hands in horror; "a little b'y like you out late's this! What'd your pa say to such doin's, an' Miss Marston? An' there's Miss Nora gone to bed, thinkin' it's safe an' aslape ye are."

"Oh, hush, cook! it's all right. Don't say anything; please don't," I said softly; then I let her go upstairs ahead of me.

The drawing-room was all dark, and the light in the hall was turned down low. The house was very quiet,—everybody had gone to bed; and after thinking it over, I made up my mind I'd wait downstairs and let the boys in before they could ring,—I forgot that Phil had taken possession of papa's latch-key, and was using it. I sat on the steps listening, and what d'you think? I must have fallen asleep, for the first thing I knew there were Phil and Felix in the hall, and Phil was closing the front door. "Oh, I see,—as usual, our gentle Rosebud's to the front," exclaimed Phil, still keeping his hand on the knob of the door; "all right, then he can help you upstairs," and he turned as if to go out.

"What!" Fee cried out in a sharp, startled voice, "you are never going back to that crowd!"

"That's just what I am going to do," answered Phil; his voice sounded thick and gruff. "Shall I give your love?"

Felix caught him by the arm. "Don't go, Phil," he pleaded; "don't go back to-night, please don't. We've had enough of them for one evening. Come, let's go upstairs. Won't you? I have a good reason for what I'm asking, and I'll explain to-morrow."

Phil came a step or two forward, shaking Fee's hand off. "Look here!" he said sharply, "this thing might's well be settled right here, and once for all. I'm a man, not a child, I'll have you to understand, and I'm not going to be controlled by you. Just remember that, and don't try any more of your little games on me, as you have to-night, for I will not stand 'em! The idea of your coming up there among those fellows and making such an ass of yourself—"

"The asinine part of this evening's performance belongs to you and your friends, not to me," broke in Felix, hotly,—Phil's tone was so insolent. "And there are a few things that you might as well understand, too," he went on more calmly. "If you continue to go to Chad's, I shall go, too; if you make those fellows your boon companions, they shall be mine as well; if you continue to drink and gamble, as you've been doing lately, and to-night, I will drink and gamble, too. I mean every word I am saying, Phil. It may go against the grain at first to associate with such cads as Chad and his crowd; but perhaps that'll wear away in time, and I may come to enjoy what I now abhor. As these low pleasures have fascinated you, so they may fascinate me."

"If you ever put your foot in Chad Whitcombe's house again, I'll make him turn you out," cried Phil, in a rage, shaking his finger at Felix. "Why, you donkey! less than three months of that sort of life'd use you up completely. I'll fix you, if you ever undertake to try it; I'll go straight to the pater,—I swear I will."

"No need to do that, old fellow," Fee said, in such a loving voice! "Just drop that set you've got into, and be your own upright, honourable self again, and you shall never hear another word of such talk out of me. But," he added earnestly, "I cannot, I will not stand seeing you, my brother, my chum, our mother's son"—Fee's voice shook—"going all wrong, without lifting a finger to save you. Why, Phil, I'd give my very life, if need be, to keep you from becoming a drunkard and a gambler. Don't go back to those fellows to-night, dear old boy; for—for her sake, don't go!" Felix was pleading with his whole heart in his voice, looking eagerly, entreatingly up at Phil, and holding out his hands to him.

My throat was just filling up as Fee spoke,—I could almost have cried; and I'm sure Phil was touched, too, but he tried not to let us see it. He sort of scuffled his feet on the marble tiling of the hall, and cleared his throat in the most indifferent way, looking up at the gas fixture. "Perhaps I will drop them by and by," he said carelessly, "but I can't just yet,—in fact, I don't want to just yet; I have a reason. And that reminds me—I must go back to-night. Now don't get silly over me, Felix; there's no danger whatever of my becoming a drunkard or a gambler,—nice opinion of me you must have!—and I'm quite equal to taking care of myself. As I've told you several times before, I'm a man now, not a child, and I will not have you or anybody running round after me. Just remember that!" As he spoke, he turned deliberately to go out.

Then Fee did a foolish thing; he ought to have known Phil better, but he was so awfully disappointed that I guess he forgot. In about one second—I don't know how he ever got there so quickly—he had limped to the door, and planted himself with his back against it. His face was just as white! and his lips were set tight together, and he held his head up in the air, looking Phil square in the eye.

A horrid nervous feeling came over me,—I just felt there was going to be trouble. I stood up on the steps quickly, and called out, "Oh, boys, don't quarrel! Oh, please, please don't quarrel!" But Phil was talking, and I don't believe they even heard me.

"Get away from that door,—I'm going out!" Phil commanded.

Not a word answered Fee; he just stood there, his eyes shining steadily up at Phil through his glasses.

"Do you hear me?" Phil said savagely. "Get—out—of—the—way. I don't want to hurt you, but I am determined to go out. Come,—move!"

He stepped nearer Felix, with a peremptory wave of his hand, and glowered at him. But Fee didn't flinch. "No," he said quietly, but in just as positive a tone as Phil's, "I will not move." Then, suddenly, a sweet, quick smile flashed over his face, and he threw his hands out on Phil's shoulders as he stood before him, saying, in that winning way of his, "I'm not a bit afraid of your ever hurting me, old Lion-heart."

I heard every word distinctly, but Phil didn't; in his rage he only caught the first part of what Fee said, and with a sharp, angry exclamation he shoved Felix violently aside, and, hastily opening the door, stepped into the vestibule.

Fee was so completely taken by surprise—poor old Fee!—that he lost his balance, swung to one side with the force of Phil's elbow, striking his back against the sharp edge of the hall chair, and fell to the floor.

I can't tell you the awful feeling that came over me when I saw Fee lying there; I got wild! I dashed down those steps and into the vestibule before Phil had had time to even turn the handle of the outer door, and, locking my hands tight round his arm, I tried to drag him back into the hall. "Come back," I cried out; "come back—oh, come back!"

"Hullo! what's happened to you,—crazy?" demanded Phil, giving his arm a shake; but I hung on with all my weight. And then I said something about Felix; I don't remember now what it was,—I hardly knew what I was saying,—but, with a sharp cry, Phil threw me from him and rushed back into the hall.

When I got to him, Phil was kneeling by Felix, with his hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. "Fee, Fee!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "what's the matter? Are you hurt? Are you, Fee? Oh, tell me!" But Fee didn't answer; he just lay there, his face half resting on the arm he had thrown out in falling; his glasses had tumbled off, and his eyes were closed.

In an instant Phil had rolled him over on his back on the hall rug, and I slipped my arm under his head. Fee looked dreadfully,—white as death, with big black shadows under his eyes; and such a sad, pitiful expression about his mouth that I burst out crying.

"Oh, hush, hush!" Phil cried eagerly; "he's coming to himself. Oh, thank God! Stop your crying, Jack,—you'll frighten him."

But he was mistaken; Fee wasn't coming to,—he lay there white and perfectly still. Oh, how we worked over him! We took off his necktie and collar, we poured water on his forehead, and fanned him, and rubbed his hands and feet with hands that were as cold as his own, and trembling. And Phil kept saying, "Oh, Jack, he'll soon be better,—don't you think so? don't you, Jack? Oh, surely, such a little fall couldn't be serious! he couldn't have struck himself on that chair,—see, it's entirely out of his way," with such a piteous pleading in his eyes and voice that I hadn't the heart to contradict him.

Nothing that we did had any effect; Fee still lay unconscious, and there was a pinched look about his features, a limp heaviness about his body, that struck terror to our hearts. "Oh, isn't this awful!" I sobbed. Then all at once I thought of that day I found Felix lying on the floor,—could this be an attack like that, only worse? His words, "What'll the next one be!" flashed into my mind, and I burst out eagerly, "Oh, Phil, call somebody—go for the doctor—quick, quick, oh, do be quick! The doctor will know what to do—he can help him—call nurse—oh, call somebody!"

But Phil suddenly dropped Felix's hand that he'd been rubbing, and bending down laid his ear on Fee's chest over his heart. I shall never forget the awful horror that was in his white face when he lifted it and looked at me across Fee's body. "Jack," he said in a slow, shrill whisper, that just went through my ears like a knife, "Jack, it's no use; Fee is—"

But I screamed out before he could say that dreadful word,—a loud scream that rang through the house and woke the people up.

In a confused sort of way—as if I had dreamed it—I remember that Nora came flying down the stairs in her dressing-gown and bare feet, and nurse hurrying behind her, both crying out in a frightened way,—something like, "Oh, lawkes! what have them boys been doin'?" and, "Oh, boys, boys! what is the matter?"

But Phil's answer stands out clear,—I can hear it every time I let myself think of that awful night. He had pushed me aside, and was sitting on the floor with Fee's body gathered in his arms, Fee's face lying against his shoulder. He looked up at Nora; his dry, white lips could hardly utter the words. "Fee is dead," he said; "I have killed Felix!"



XX.

A SOLEMN PROMISE.

TOLD BY JACK.

For a little while there was a dreadful commotion down there in the hall. Hannah and cook had come, too, by this time, and everybody was crying, and rushing about, and all talking at once,—telling everybody else what to do. Poor Nonie was awfully frightened; at first she couldn't do a thing but cry, and I was just as bad,—I'd got to that pitch that I didn't care who saw my tears.

But nurse kept her head splendidly; generally she gets all worked up over the least little sickness, but this time she kept cool, and told us what to do.

"Don't talk so foolish, Master Phil!" she exclaimed sharply, when Phil said that awful thing about Fee. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself,—frightening your sister that way! He ain't no more dead 'n you are."

Well, if you'd seen the look of hope that flashed into Phil's face! "Oh, nurse!" he gasped, "do you honestly think so? But he isn't breathing,—I can't feel his heart beat."

"That's 'cause he's in a swoond," nurse answered briskly. "Here, lay him down flat. Now rub his feet—hard; Hannah, slap his palms,—that'll start up a cirkilation. Here, Miss Nora, fan your brother. Cook, fill them hot-water bottles; if the water in the biler ain't hot 'nough, start your fire immejiate. Master Jack, you run for the doctor; an' if he can't come," she added, dropping her voice so that only I heard her, "get another. Don't you come back here without somebody. An' be quick's you can."

That told me that she wasn't as sure about Fee as she pretended to be, and the hope that had come up in my heart died right out. My eyes got so blinded with tears that I just had to grope for my hat; but as I was opening the outer door, I heard something that brought me in again in double quick time.

It was a cry from Phil,—a shout of joy: "He is breathing! Oh, he's breathing! His eyes are opening!"

Sure enough, they were. Slowly the heavy lids raised, and Fee's near-sighted eyes looked blankly up at Phil.

"Don't you know me, old fellow?" Phil asked with a break in his voice, bending eagerly over Felix.

A sweet little smile flickered over Fee's lips. "Phil," he said faintly; and then, with what we could all see was a great effort, he raised his hand slowly and let it fall heavily on Phil's hand.

Poor Phil! that broke him down completely. Catching Fee's face between his two hands, he kissed him warmly two or three times, and then, dropping his head down on Fee's shoulder, burst into a storm of sobs.

"Oh, come, come! this'll never do!" cried nurse, bustling forward. "Come, Master Phil, this ain't any time for sich behaviour,"—mind you, she was wiping the corners of her own eyes! "Now we must get him up to his own room soon's possible; then we can make him comfort'ble. Can you carry him up? Me and Hannah can help."

"I can do it alone," Phil said quickly, beginning to gather Fee into his arms. But I tell you it was hard work getting him up, he was such a dead weight!

Fee knew Phil was making a desperate effort to lift him, and he tried, poor fellow, to help all he could. When at last Phil stood erect, with him in his arms, nurse raised Fee's hands and joined them back of Phil's neck. "Now clasp your hands tight, Master Felix," she said, "and that'll take some of your weight off your brother."

Fee's hands were actually resting one on the other, and I saw his fingers move feebly, trying to take hold of one another. Then he said in a slow, frightened whisper, "I—can't—make—them—hold!" and his arms slipped down, one of them swinging helplessly by his side, until nurse laid it in his lap.

"Never mind, don't worry about that, Fee; I can get you up," Phil said cheerfully. "Why, don't you remember I took you almost up to your room the other night?"

Nora and I looked at each other. I know we were both thinking of the same thing,—that happy evening when we heard of aunt Lindsay's plan for Fee, and when Phil had picked Felix up and run so gaily up the stairs with him, singing. Was it possible that was only three or four evenings ago! It seemed years.

"Run for the doctor, Master Jack—don't loiter," nurse said, as she fell in with the procession that was moving so slowly up the stairs; Phil was going one step at a time, and sometimes sliding himself along against the banister to rest the weight he was carrying.

I rushed out and up to Dr. Archard's as fast as I could go. The streets through which I went were very lonely,—I scarcely met a creature,—but I didn't mind; in fact, the stillness, and the stars shining so clear and bright in the quiet sky, seemed to do me good. I knew Who was up there above those shining stars; I thought of the poor lame man that He had healed long ago, and as I raced along, I just prayed that He would help our Fee.

Dr. Archard was away, out of town, the sleepy boy who answered the bell told me; but Dr. Gordon, his assistant, was in,—would he do?

I didn't know him at all,—he'd come since papa's illness; but of course I said yes, and in a few minutes the doctor was ready and we started.

He had a nice face,—he was years younger than Dr. Archard,—and as we hurried toward home and began talking of Felix, I suddenly made up my mind that I would tell him about the attack Fee had had when papa was so ill. That promise of mine not to speak of it had always worried me, and now, all at once, a feeling came over me that I just ought to tell Dr. Gordon everything about it,—and I did.

He asked a lot of questions, and when I finished he said gravely, "You have done very right in telling me of this; the knowledge of this former attack and his symptoms will help me in treating your brother's case."

"Is it the same trouble?" I asked eagerly.

"Certain symptoms which you have described point that way," he answered; "but of course I can say nothing until I have seen and examined him."

"Could such an accident"—I'd told him that Fee had struck his back against a chair and then fallen—"do anybody—harm?" My heart was thumping as I put the question.

"Under some circumstances, serious harm," the doctor said. And just then—before I could say anything more—we came to our stoop, and there was Hannah holding the door open for us to go in.

* * * * *

The doctor turned every one out of Fee's room but Phil and nurse; and he was in there an awful long time. And while Nonie and I sat on the upper stairs waiting for news, what did I do but fall asleep! and I didn't wake up until the next morning, when I found myself in my own bed. It seems that Phil had undressed and put me to bed, though I didn't remember a thing about it. I felt dreadfully ashamed to have gone to sleep without hearing how Fee was, but you see I was so dead tired, that I suppose I really couldn't keep awake.

Did you ever wake up in the morning with a strange sort of feeling as if there was a weight on your heart, and then remember that something dreadful had happened the night before? Well, then you know just how I felt the morning after Fee got hurt. For a moment or two I tried to make myself believe it was all a bad dream; but there sat Phil on the edge of our bed, and the sight of his wretched white face brought back the whole thing only too plainly.

"Oh! how is Fee?" I exclaimed, sitting up in bed. "What does the doctor say about him?"

Phil's elbow was resting on his knee, his chin in his palm. "The doctor says," he answered, with, oh! such a look of misery in his tired eyes, "that Felix is not in danger of death, but it looks now as if he might not be able to walk again!"



"Oh, Phil, Phil!" I cried out; then I sat and stared at him, and wondered if I were really awake, or if this were some dreadful dream.

"His back was weak from the start," went on Phil, drearily, "and probably would have been to the end of his life; but at least he would have been able to get around—to go to college—to enter a profession. Now all that is over and done with. Isn't it awful!"

"Oh, but that can't be true," I broke in eagerly. "Why, Phil, Fee was in a dreadful way that last attack, I told the doctor about it,"—Phil nodded; "he couldn't stand on his feet at all,—and yet he got better. Oh, he may now; he may, Phil, only with a longer time! See?"

"I thought of that when Gordon told me what you had told him, and I begged for some hope of that sort,—begged as I wouldn't now for my own life, Jack." Phil's voice got so unsteady that he had to stop for a minute. "After a good deal of talking and pleading," he went on presently, "I got him to admit that there is a bare chance, on account of his being so young, that Fee may get around again, in a sort of a way; but it's too slim to be counted on, and it could only be after a long time,—two or three years or longer. Dr. Archard'll be in town to-morrow, and they will consult; but Gordon says he's had cases of this kind before, and knows the symptoms well. I think he would have given us hope if he could. You see Fee isn't strong; oh, if it had only been I!—great, uncouth, ugly brute that I am!" Phil struck his hand so fiercely on the bed that the springs just bounced me up and down.

"Fee's feet and legs are utterly useless," he began again; "his spine is so weak he can't sit up. Even his fingers are affected,—he can't close them on anything; he's lost his grip. And he may lie in this condition for years; he may never recover from it. Oh, think of that, Jack!" Phil broke out excitedly; "think of it! Our Fee, with his splendid, clever mind, with all his bright hopes and ambitions, with the certainty of going to college so near at hand,—to have to lie there, day in and day out, a helpless, useless creature! And brought to it by my doing,—his own brother! Oh!" He drew his knee up, and folding his arms round it, laid his face down with a moan.

I slipped over to his side and threw my arm across his shoulder. "Phil, dear," I said, to comfort him, "try and not think of that part; I'm sure Fee wouldn't want you to. You know he had that other attack—and—perhaps this would have come any way—"

But Phil interrupted, looking at me with those miserable, hollow eyes. "Not like this," he said. "Dr. Gordon told me himself that the blow Fee got was what did the mischief this time; with medical care he might have got over those other attacks. Gordon didn't dream that I was the infuriated drunken brute who flung him against that chair. Drunken! I think I must have been possessed by a devil! That I should have raised my hand against Fee,—the brother I love so dearly, my chum, my comrade, mother's boy, of whom she was so tender! Oh, God! shall I have to carry this awful remorse all the rest of my life!" His voice broke in a kind of a wail, and he threw his clinched hands up over his head.

"Oh, Phil, dear Phil! Oh, please don't," I begged. "Oh, Fee wouldn't want you to talk like this."

"I know he wouldn't. God bless him!" Phil answered in a quieter tone, dropping his arms by his sides. "Oh, Jack, it cuts me up awfully to see him lying there so cheerful and serene when he knows that what's happened has just spoiled his whole life—"

"Oh, does he know?" I exclaimed.

"He insisted on knowing, and bore it like a soldier. When I broke down he smiled at me, actually smiled, Jack, with, 'Why, old fellow, it isn't so bad—as all that'—o-oh!" Phil choked up, and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face deep in the pillows, that Fee in the next room might not hear his sobs.

* * * * *

That was a miserable day. Dr. Archard came quite early, and after the consultation we heard that, in the main, he agreed with Dr. Gordon. "Still," he said to Nora and me, as he was going, "Felix may surprise us all by recovering much faster and more fully than we expect. The thing is to get him out of town just as soon as we can, and in the mean time to follow directions and keep him quiet and cheerful. Phil seems to have taken charge of the boy, and I do believe he's going to develop into a nurse. I'll send you round a masseur, and I'll write to your father, so he'll not be alarmed. Keep up your spirits, and your roses, my dear," patting Nora's cheek. Then he got into his carriage and drove away.

Because the doctor said that about keeping Fee quiet, no one but Phil or nurse was allowed in his room all day. But late in the afternoon nurse let me take something up to him,—she had to see to the children's dinner, or something or other downstairs; she said if Phil were with him I wasn't to stay.

I knocked, but not very hard,—my hands were pretty full; and then, as nobody answered, I opened the door softly, and went in. Fee was lying sort of hunched up among the pillows, which weren't any whiter than his face. Oh! didn't he look delicate!

He had on his glasses again, and now his eyes were shining through them, and there was a very sweet expression on his lips. Phil was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking in a low, unsteady voice: "I didn't really care for them," he was saying, "and there were times when I fairly loathed them; but somehow they got round me, and—I began to go there regularly. They drank and gambled; they said all young fellows did it, and they laughed at me when I objected. I held out for a good while,—then one night I gave in. I was a fool; I dreaded their ridicule. There were times, though, when I was disgusted with myself. Then I began to win at cards, and—well—I thought I'd save the money for a purpose; though in my heart I knew full well that—the—the—the person I was saving for wouldn't touch a penny got that way. Well, then something happened that made that money I was saving quite unnecessary, and then I just played to lose. I wanted those fellows to have their money back; after that I thought I'd cut loose from 'em. That was the reason I wanted to go back to Chad's that night,—was it only last night? It seems like years ago!"

Phil dropped his face down in his hands for a minute; then he went on: "I started out this morning and gave each of the fellows his money back. They didn't want to take it,—they think me a crazy loon; but I insisted. I've got beyond caring for their opinion. And now, Fee, the rest of my life belongs to you; you've paid an awful price for it, old fellow,—I'm not worth it. Think of your college course—your profession—all the things we planned! I'm not worth it!"

Phil's voice failed, but he cleared his throat quickly, and spoke out clearly and solemnly. "Felix," he said, "I will never play cards again as long as I live; and I will never drink another drop of liquor,—so help me God." He raised his hand as he spoke, as if registering the oath. Then he bent over and buried his face in the bed-clothes.

Slowly Fee's poor helpless hand went out and fell on Phil's head. "What is all the rest compared with this," he said, oh, so tenderly! then, with a little unsteady laugh, "Philippus, I always said there wasn't a mean bone in your body." And then Phil threw his arms round Felix and kissed him.

I laid what I had brought down on the table, and went quickly away, shutting the door a little hard that they might know somebody'd gone out. I should have left just as soon as I found they were talking,—I know I should,—but it seemed as if Phil's words just held me there. I've told Phil and Felix all about it since then, and they say they don't mind my having heard; but between what I felt for them both, and for my having done such a mean thing as to listen to what wasn't meant for me to hear, I was a pretty miserable boy that afternoon.

I flew upstairs to the schoolroom, and throwing myself down on the old sofa I just had a good cry. It seems as if I were an awful cry-baby those days; but how could a person help it, with such dreadful things happening?

Well, I hadn't been there very long when in came Nora and opened the windows to let in the lovely afternoon light, and of course then I got up.

I guess I must have been a forlorn-looking object, for Nora smoothed my hair back off my forehead and kissed me,—she doesn't often do those things. "I'm going to write to Nannie," she said, laying some note-paper on the schoolroom table. "It is the first minute I've had in which to do it; perhaps,"—slowly,—"if she had been here, all this trouble might not have happened. Why don't you send Betty a few lines, Jack? You know she will want to hear of Fee; but don't frighten her about him."

So I thought I would write Betty,—I owed her a letter. After all, she wasn't having at all a bad time with the Ervengs; in fact, I fancy she was enjoying herself, though she was careful not to say so.

Nora and I were sitting at the same table, but far apart, and I'd just called out and asked her if there were two l's in wonderful—I was writing about Fee—when the schoolroom door opened, and in walked Chad Whitcombe! As usual, he looked a regular dandy, and he held a bunch of roses in his hand. He came forward with his hand out and smiling: "I've—aw—just called in for a minute," he said. "I thought—aw—you might care for these flowers—"

But Nora rose quickly from her chair, pushing it a little from her, and putting her hands behind her back, she faced him with her head up in the air. My! how handsome she looked,—like a queen, or something grand like that! "I thank you for your polite intention," she said very stiffly and proudly, "but hereafter I prefer to have neither flowers nor visits from you."

Well, you should have seen Chad's face! he'd been stroking his moustache, but now, positively, he stood staring at Nora with his mouth open, he was so astonished. "Wha—what's wrong?" he stammered. "What've I done?"

Then Nora gave it to him; she didn't mince matters,—truly, she made me think of Betty. "What have you done?" she repeated, opening her grey eyes at him. "Oh! only acted as I have never known any one calling himself a gentleman to act. Mr. Whitcombe,"—with a toss of her head equal to anything Betty could have done,—"I will not have the acquaintance of a man who drinks and gambles."

Then I was the one to be astonished; I didn't dream Nora knew anything about that part. Phil must have told her that day.



"And who not only does those dreadful things himself," went on Nora, "but inveigles others into doing them, too. The idea of coming here among us as a friend, and then leading Phil off,—trying to ruin his life!" Nonie's cheeks were scarlet; she was getting madder and madder with every word she said.

"Why, that isn't gambling; we just play for small amounts," exclaimed Chad, eagerly, forgetting his affectation, and speaking just like anybody. "All the fellows do it; why, I've played cards and drunk liquor since I was twelve years old. It hasn't hurt me."

"No?" said Nora, coldly. "We don't agree on that point;" then, curling her lip in a disgusted way: "What an unfortunate, neglected little boy you must have been. If Jack should do either of those low, wicked things, I should consider a sound thrashing entirely too mild treatment for him. And allow me to tell you that all the young fellows we know are not after your kind: they neither drink, nor play cards; and yet, strange to say,—that is, from your point of view,—they are extremely manly."

"I'm sorry, you know; but I didn't suppose you'd mind—so much," Chad began, in the meekest sort of tone. "You always seemed to understand lots of things that the others didn't, and—"

But Nora interrupted: "I made allowances for you," she said, with her little superior air, "knowing that you had lost your parents as a little boy, and that you had had so little—now I will say no—home training. Besides, I thought, perhaps"—she hesitated, then went on—"that perhaps the others were a little hard on you; it seemed rather unjust, simply because you were—well—different from ourselves. But I didn't imagine for one moment that you were this sort of a person. It isn't honourable to do those things,—don't you know that? It is low and wicked."

"I only wanted Phil to have a good time; I never thought he was such a baby he'd get any harm," exclaimed Chad, a little sulkily, getting awfully red, even to his ears. "And as to Felix, he came of his own free will. It's he that has told you all this, and set you up against me. Felix doesn't like me, and he hasn't taken any pains to hide it. I don't see why he came up there last night, if he thinks we're so wicked."

"I will tell you why," cried Nora; "he came in the hope that seeing him there would shame Phil, and induce him to get out of such a set. And it has gotten him out,—though not in the way that Fee expected. When I think of all that has happened since you and Phil went out together last evening,—of all the trouble you have brought on us,—I really wish you would go away; I prefer to have nothing more to say to you."

She made a motion of her hand as if dismissing him, but Chad never moved. He just stood there, holding the roses upside down, and looking very gloomy. "You're awfully down on me," he said presently; then, "and A'm awfully sorry. Ah wish you'd forgive me!" in such a beseeching sort of tone that I could have laughed right out.

But Nonie didn't laugh, or even smile; she just answered, a little more kindly than before: "It's not a question of my forgiving you that will set the matter right; the thing is to give up that way of living. Surely there are plenty of other ways of amusing yourself,—nice honourable ways that belong to a gentleman. Then—people—would be able to respect as well as like you. I wonder that Max has let this sort of thing go on."

"Oh, he doesn't know," Chad said, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the door, as if he thought Max might be there, ready to walk in on him.

"Tell him," advised Nora,—she just loves to advise people,—"and get him to help you. You could study for college, or—go into business, if you preferred that."

Chad was looking intently at her; suddenly he threw the roses on the schoolroom table,—with such force that they slid across and fell on the floor on the other side,—and made a step or two toward Nora, with his hands extended, exclaiming eagerly, "Oh, Nora, if I thought that you cared—"

But like a flash Nora got behind her chair, putting it between herself and Chad. "Don't say another word!" she broke in imperiously, standing very straight, and looking proudly at him over the back of the chair. "Jack, pick up those flowers and return them to Mr. Whitcombe, and then open the door for him."

Chad was so startled that he jumped,—you see he hadn't noticed that I was there,—and didn't he look foolish! and blush! why, his face actually got mahogany colour. He snatched the poor roses from me and just bolted through that schoolroom door.

Well, I had to laugh; and when I turned back into the room, after seeing him to the head of the stairs, I said, "I'm just glad you gave it to him, Nonie!"

"There is nothing for you to laugh at, Jack," Nora said sharply, turning on me. "Remember you are only a little boy, and this is none of your affair." With that she picked up her writing materials and walked off. Aren't girls the funniest!



XXI.

THROUGH THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND.

TOLD BY JACK.

The man to massage Felix came the next day; but, except for the time he was there, Phil took entire charge of Fee. He had always declared he wasn't of any use in a sick-room, but now he seemed to get on very well; you can't think how kind and gentle he was!

For one thing, Fee wasn't hard to suit, and that helped things a great deal. If Phil made a mistake, or did something awkwardly, Fee just turned it off in a joking way. He was very white and languid, but not at all sad; in fact, he kept our spirits up with his funny sayings. We all thought it was amazing; nurse said he was "a born angel," and now and then I saw Phil look wistfully at Fee, as if wondering how he could be so brave. And Felix, when he caught Phil's eye, would give a roguish little smile, and say something so merry that we had to laugh.

The only part that troubled me was that Phil stuck so closely to Fee that nobody else got a chance to do anything for him. I just longed to go in and sit with Fee a while, but the doctor didn't want more than one to be with him at a time; and what with Nora, and nurse, and Phil, I didn't get any chance at all until about the third day that Fee'd been ill. A telegram came that morning from Miss Marston, saying she was on the way home, and would arrive early in the afternoon, and that we would start for the Cottage the next day,—she didn't know about Fee; we'd been so upset that nobody had thought of writing her.

Well, that threw Nora into what Phil calls "a state of mind," and she and nurse began getting things together and packing 'em.

I just hate packing times; you have to keep running up and down stairs carrying things, and all that, and you don't have a minute to yourself for reading. But of course I had to help, and I was busy in the nursery handing things to nurse off a shelf, when Phil came to the door with his hat on. He looked brighter than he had for some time. "Jack," he said, "will you sit with Felix for a while? I have to go out; but I'll be back as soon as I can."

Of course I was only too glad, and I went right to Fee's room. He looked tired, and those circles under his eyes were very big and dark; but he smiled at me, and chatted for a few minutes. Then presently, after Phil'd gone, he said: "Would you mind taking a seat over there in the window, Jack? I want to do a little quiet thinking. There's a nice book on the table; take it. Phil said he wouldn't be away long."



I was disappointed,—I wanted to talk with him; but I took the book and went over to the window.

It was a capital story, and I soon got interested in it. I don't know how long I'd read—I was enjoying the story so much—when I heard a queer, smothered sound, and it came from the direction of Felix.

In a minute I was by his side, exclaiming, "Why, what's the matter, Fee?"

He had slipped down in the bed, and while his poor helpless legs still lay stretched straight out, he'd twisted the upper part of his body so that he was now lying a little on his side, hugging one of the pillows, and with his face buried in it. His shoulders were shaking, and when he raised his head to answer me, I saw the tears were streaming down his cheeks.

"Shut the door—quick!" he cried, gasping between the words. "Lock it—pile the furniture against it—don't let a creature in—oh, don't let them see me!"

I flew to the door and locked it; and by the time I got back to the bed, Fee seemed to have lost all control over himself. He twisted and twitched, rolling his head restlessly from side to side,—one minute throwing his arms out wildly as far as they could reach, the next snatching at the pillows or the bed-clothes, and trying to stuff them into his mouth. And all the time he kept making that horrible sharp gasping noise,—as if he were almost losing his breath.

I was dreadfully scared at first,—that Felix, of all people, should act this way! I got goose-flesh all over, and just stood there staring at Fee, and that seemed only to make him worse.

"Don't stare at me like that. Oh, don't, don't, don't!" he cried out. "I can't help this—really—I can't, I can't! Oh, if I could only scream without the others hearing me!" He threw his head back and beat the pillows with his outstretched arms.

Then, somehow, I began to understand: a great lump came in my throat, and taking hold of one of Fee's cold, clammy hands, I commenced stroking and patting it without a word.

His fingers were twitching so I could hardly hold them, and he talked very fast,—almost as if he couldn't stop himself.

"Don't tell them of this, Jack," he begged, in that sharp gasping voice, "don't tell them! they wouldn't understand—they'd worry—and poor Phil would be wretched. I know what this is to him,—poor old fellow! I see the misery in his face from day to day, and I've tried—so hard—to keep everything in—and be cheerful—so he shouldn't guess—until I thought I should go mad! Oh, think of what this means to me, Jack! College, profession, hopes, ambitions—gone forever—nothing left but to lie here—for the rest of my life—a useless hulk—a cumberer of the ground. Only seventeen, Jack, and I may live to be eighty—like this! never to go about—never to walk again. Oh, if I might die!"—his voice got shrill,—"if God would only let me die! I've always been a poor useless creature,—and now, now, of what good am I in the world? Nothing but a burden and a care. Oh, how shall I ever, ever endure it!"

I was so nervous that I began shaking inside, and I had to speak very slowly to keep my voice from shaking too. "Don't talk so foolishly, Fee," I said,—but not unkindly, you know. "Why, I don't know what we'd all do without you,—having you to ask things of, and to tell us what to do. I know papa depends on you an awful lot; and Miss Marston said the day she went away that she wouldn't've gone if she hadn't known you would be here to look after us and keep things straight; and what would Nannie do without you? Talk about being of no use,—just think what you've saved Phil from!"

"I am thankful for that," broke in Felix, "most thankful! I don't regret what I did that night, Jack. I'd do it again if need be, even knowing that it must end like this,"—with a despairing motion of his hand toward his helpless legs.

Then he added eagerly, breathlessly, "Don't ever tell Phil about this morning, Jack,—that I feel so terribly about the accident. Don't tell him,—'twould break his heart. I hope he'll never know. I pretended to be cheerful, I laughed and talked to cheer him up, but my heart grew heavier and heavier, and my head felt as if it were being wound up; I was afraid I'd go mad and tell the whole thing out. Oh, Jack, it's those dreary days, those endless years of uselessness that terrify me. Oh, help me to be strong! Oh, Jack, help me! help me!"

His arms began to fly about again; he had thrown off his glasses, and his big hollow eyes stared at me with a wild, beseeching expression in them.

"I'm so afraid—I'll scream out—and then they'll all hear me—and know," he gasped. "Oh, give me something, quick—oh, do something for me before I lose entire control of myself."

I flew to the table and got him some water; I didn't know what else to do, and he wouldn't let me call anybody,—even just speaking of it made him wild. Then I fanned him, and knelt by the bed stroking one of his hands. But nothing seemed to help him. And then—God must have put the thought into my mind—I said suddenly, "Fee, dear, I'm going to sing to you;" and before he could say no, I began.

At first I could hardly keep my voice steady,—on account of that horrid, inward shaking,—but I went right on, and gradually it got better.

I sang very softly and went from one hymn to the other, just as they came to my mind: First, "O Mother dear, Jerusalem,"—I love that old hymn!—then, "And now we fight the battle, but then shall win the crown;" and then, "The Son of God goes forth to war." That's one of Fee's favourites, and he sobbed right out when I sang,—

"'Who best can drink his cup of woe, Triumphant over pain; Who patient bears his cross below,— He follows in His train.'"

But I kept on,—really, I felt as if I couldn't stop,—and when I got to the last line of "For all the saints who from their labours rest," Fee whispered, "Sing those verses again, Jack."

I knew which he meant; so I sang:—

"'Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress, and their Might; Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well-fought fight; Thou, in the darkness drear, the one true Light. Alleluia!

"O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true, and bold, Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old, And win, with them, the victor's crown of gold. Alleluia!

* * * * *

"And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, Steals on the ear the distant triumph-song, And hearts are brave again, and arms are strong. Alleluia!'"

Fee lay quiet when I finished. He was still twitching, and tears were slipping down his cheeks from under his closed lids; but he no longer made that dreadful gasping sound, and there was a beautiful expression on his mouth,—so sweet and patient. "I've not been a soldier 'faithful, true, and bold,'" he said sadly, "but a miserable coward. Ah! how we must weary God with our grumblings and complainings, our broken resolutions and weaknesses. I prayed with all my heart and strength for Phil, that he might be saved from that crowd. And now that God has granted my prayer, I bewail His way of doing it. I was willing then to say, 'At any cost to myself,' and here I am shrinking from the share He has given me! dreading the pain and loneliness. A faithless soldier, Jack,—not worthy to be called a soldier."

"Oh! not faithless," I put in eagerly; "indeed, Fee, you're not faithless. Even if you do shrink from this—this trouble—it's only just here between us; you are going to be brave over it,—you know you are. Going to be! why, Fee, I think you are the bravest boy! the truest, noblest—" I had to stop; that lump was just swelling up in my throat.

"No," Fee said mournfully, drawing his breath in as Kathie does hers sometimes when she's been crying for a long while; "no, Jack, I'm not really brave,—not yet! I'm going to bear this only because I must—because I can't escape it. Perhaps, by and by, strength may come to endure the trial more patiently; but now—I dread it. I would fly from it if I could; I would die rather than face those awful years of helplessness! See what a poor creature your 'brave boy' is, Jack." His lips were quivering, and he folded one arm over his eyes.

Then all at once there came back to me a talk which mamma and I once had, and I thought perhaps 'twould comfort poor Felix, so I tried to tell him as well as I could. "Fee, dear," I said, holding his hand tight in mine, and snuggling my head close up to his on the pillow, so I could whisper, "once, when mamma and I were talking, she said always to remember that God knows it's awfully hard for people to bear suffering and trouble; and that He always helps them and makes allowances for them, because He's our Father, and for the sake of His own dear Son, who had to go through so much trouble here on earth.

"And He knows, too, Fee,—Jesus knows just how you feel about this; don't you remember how He prayed that last night in Gethsemane that—if God would—He might not have to go through the awful trial of the cross? He meant to carry it right through, you know, all the time,—that's what He came on earth for; He meant to do every single thing that God had given Him to do, and just as bravely! But, all the same, He felt, too, how awfully hard 'twas going to be, and just for a little while beforehand He dreaded it,—just as you dread the years that'll have to pass before you can be well. See?

"And He knows your heart, Fee; He knows that you're going to be just as brave and patient as you can be, and He'll help you every time. Nannie and I'll ask Him for you—and Betty—and poor old Phil—all of us. And dear mamma's up there, too; perhaps she's asking Him to comfort you and make you strong. I feel as if she must be doing it,—she loved you so!"

Fee drew his hand out of mine, and raising his arm, touched my cheek softly with his feeble fingers, and for a few minutes we neither of us said a word.

Then there came a knock at the door; I scrambled to my feet, and going over, turned the key. Somebody brushed quickly by me with the swish of a girl's dress, and there was Nannie in the middle of the room! She ran toward Felix with her arms out, her brown eyes shining with love. "Oh, my darling!" she cried out, "my dear!"

I heard Fee's glad, breathless exclamation, "My twinnie!" Then Phil's arm went over my shoulders and drew me into the hall, and Phil's voice said softly in my ear, "Come, Rosebud, let's leave them alone for a while."



XXII.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN.

TOLD BY JACK.

Miss Marston arrived that afternoon, and the next day we started, bag and baggage, for the Cottage. And here we've been for nearly three months; in a week or two more we'll be thinking of going back to the city. Dr. Gordon came up with us, and he and Phil did all they could to make the journey easier for Felix. But he was dreadfully used up by the time we got him to the house, and for days no one but Phil and Nannie were allowed in his room.

Papa came a few days after we did, looking ever so much better than when he went away, and he settled down to work at once. Betty's here, too. From what she lets out now and then, I'm pretty sure she's had a real good time; but, do you know, she won't acknowledge it. Still, I notice she doesn't make such fun of Hilliard as she used to; and I will say Betty's improving. She doesn't romp and tear about so much, nor flare out at people so often, and of course that makes her much more comfortable to live with. I'm ever so glad she's here; if she hadn't been, I'm afraid I'd have had an awfully stupid time this summer. You see Betty and I are in the middle; we come between the big and the little ones in the family, and we 'most always go together on that account.



Nannie's had her hands full, what with helping papa with the Fetich, and doing all sorts of things for her twin. Nora's looked after Phil and cheered him up when he got blue about Felix, and Phil has just devoted himself to Fee. He's with him almost the whole time, and you can't think how gentle and considerate Phil is these days.

Fee is out of doors a great deal; Phil carries him out on fine days, and lays him on his bamboo lounge under the big maples; and there you're sure to find the whole family gathered, some time or other, every day that he is there.

It seems as if we love Fee more and more dearly every day,—he's so bright and merry and sweet, and he tries so hard to be patient and make the best of things. Of course he has times—what he calls his "dark days"—when his courage sinks, and he gets cranky and sarcastic; but they don't come as often as at first. And we all make allowances, for we know there isn't one of us that in his place would be as unselfish and helpful. We go to him with everything,—even papa has got in the way of sitting and talking with Fee; anyway, it seems as if papa were more with us now than he used to be, and he's ever so much nicer,—more like other people's fathers are, you know!

Felix has got back the use of his fingers since we've been in the country; he can paint or play his violin for a little while at a time, but his legs are still useless. The doctor, though, declares he can see a slight improvement in them. He says now that perhaps—after several years—Fee may be able to get around on crutches! Betty and I felt awfully disappointed when we heard this,—we've been so sure Fee would get perfectly well; but Fee himself was very happy over it. "Once let me assume the perpendicular, even on crutches," he said, smiling at Phil, who sat sadly beside him, "and you see if, after a while, these old pegs don't come up to their duty bravely. I may yet dance at your wedding, Philippus."

Max comes up to the Cottage quite often, and stays from Saturday to Monday. He's just as nice and kind as he can be,—why, he doesn't seem to mind one bit going off on jolly long drives in the old depot-wagon, or on larks, with only Nannie and us children; and he's teaching Maedel how to manage G. W. L. Spry and make him go, without being thrown off.

Phil and Felix and Max had a long talk together the first time Max came up, and I have an idea 'twas about Chad, for Max looked very grave. I don't know what he did about it, but the other day I heard him tell Nora that Chad had positively made up his mind to go into business. "He says he has broken loose from a very bad set he was in," Max said, "and seems very much in earnest to make the best of himself,—which is, of course, a great relief to me. I hope his good resolutions will amount to something."

"Perhaps they will," Nora answered, rather indifferently, but her cheeks got real red. I shouldn't wonder if she thought Chad'd done it because she advised him to.

We have a way this summer, on Sunday afternoons, of all sitting with Felix under the maple-trees, talking, and singing our chants and hymns there instead of in the parlour. We were all there—the whole ten of us—one afternoon, when papa came across the lawn and sat down in the basket-chair that Phil rushed off and got him. We'd just finished singing, "O Mother dear, Jerusalem," Fee accompanying us on his violin, and we didn't begin anything else, for there was a queer—sort of excited—look on papa's face that somehow made us think he had something to tell us. And sure enough he had.

"My children," he said presently, and his voice wasn't as quiet and even as it usually is, "I have this to tell you,—that last night I finished my life work; my History is completed!"

The Fetich finished! we just looked at each other with wide-open eyes.

Then Nannie knelt down by papa's chair and kissed him warmly, and Phil, who was sitting on the edge of Fee's lounge, leaned over and shook hands with papa in a kind of grown-up, manly way.

"Allow me to congratulate you, sir," Fee said earnestly, with shining eyes. "It is a great piece of work, and your children are very proud of it and of you."

The rest of us didn't know what to say, so we just sat and looked at papa.

"I began it years ago," papa said after a minute or two, in a dreamy voice, as if talking more to himself than to us, and looking away at the sunset with a sad, far-off expression in his eyes, "years ago; just after I met—Margaret. But for her encouragement—her loving help—her perfect faith in my ability—it could never have been accomplished. Now it is finished—I am here alone—and she—is far away—at peace!" Papa's lips were working; he put his hand up quickly and shielded his eyes from us.

We were all very still; we older ones felt very sad. And then, soft and low—almost like an angel's voice—there came from Fee's violin the sweet strains of Handel's "Largo." The music rose and fell a bar or two, and then Nannie and Nora and Phil sang together very softly:—

"The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God. There shall no sorrow touch them. In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die; but they are in peace, for so He giveth His beloved sleep."

THE END