“Still unconscious”—­

Would no one ever come near her but this detestable maid, with her still more detestable news?  Mrs. Chatterton clutched the window casing in her extremity, not feeling the soft springy air as she gasped for breath.  The maid, too frightened to leave her, crept into a corner where she watched and cried softly.

There was a stir in the household that they might have heard, betokening the arrival of two other doctors, but no word came.  And darkness settled upon the room.  Still the figure in the window niche held to its support, and still the maid cried at her post.

As the gray of the twilight settled over the old stone mansion, Phronsie moved on her pillow.

“Dear mouse,”—­the circle of watchers around the bed moved closer,—­ “I’ll go away when some one comes to open the door.”

“Hush!” Dr. Fisher put his hand over the mother’s lips.

“Don’t please bite me very hard.  I won’t come up again to your house.  Oh! where’s Grandpapa?”

Old Mr. King put his head on his hands, and sobbed aloud.

The little white face moved uneasily.

“Grandpapa always comes when I want him,” in piteous tones.

“Father,” said Jasper, laying a hand on the bowed shoulders, “you would better come out.  We’ll call you when she comes to herself.”

But Mr. King gave no sign of hearing.

A half-hour ticked slowly away, and Phronsie spoke again.  “It’s growing dark, and I suppose they will never come.  Dear mouse”—­the words died away and she seemed to sleep.

“I shall not tell,” Mrs. Chatterton was saying to herself in the other room; “what good could it do?  Oh! this vile air is stifling.  Will no one come to say she is better?” And so the night wore on.

As morning broke, Phronsie opened her eyes, and gave a weak little cry.  Polly sprang from her knees at the foot of the bed, and staggered toward the child.

“Don’t!” cried Jasper, with a hand on her arm.

“Let her alone,” said Dr. Fisher quickly.

“Oh, Polly!” Phronsie raised herself convulsively on the bed.  “You did come—­you did!” winding her little arms around Polly’s neck.  “Has the mouse gone?”

“Yes, yes,” said Polly as convulsively; “he’s all gone, Phronsie, and I have you fast; just see.  And I’ll never let you go again.”

“Never?” cried Phronsie, straining to get up further into Polly’s arms.

“No dear; I’ll hold you close just as long as you need me.”

“And he won’t come again?”

“He can’t Phronsie; because, you see, I have you now.”

“And the door will open, and I’ll have Mamsie and dear Grandpapa?”

“Yes, yes, my precious one,” began Mr. King, getting out of the large arm-chair into which they had persuaded him.

“Don’t do it.  Stay where you are,” said Dr. Fisher, stopping him half-way across the room.

“But Phronsie wants me; she said so,” exclaimed old Mr. King hoarsely, and trying to push his way past the doctor.  “Why, man, don’t stop me.”