"I am. My father is ill, and I want Miss Fraser."

"G.o.d help us! the doctor ill!" exclaimed the girl.

She stood where Effie told her, holding Jock's reins.

"Be quiet, Jock; don't stir till I come out," said Effie. The old horse drooped his head. Effie ran up the steps and into the house. She had never been at The Grange before, but she had no eyes for the beauties of the old place this morning. There was something too awful lying at the bottom of her heart, for any external things to affect her. She went quickly up the broad front stairs, and paused on the first landing. How was she to discover the room where Dorothy and little Freda Harvey spent their time together? She was about to turn back in utter bewilderment, when, to her relief, she saw another servant. The servant stopped and stared at Effie. Effie came up to her quickly.

"You may be surprised to see me here," she said. "I am Miss Staunton, Dr. Staunton's daughter. He is ill. I want to see Nurse Fraser immediately. Take me to her at once."

"We are none of us allowed near that part of the house, miss," replied the woman.

"You can take me in the direction, anyhow, and explain to me how I am to get to Miss Fraser," said Effie. "Come, there's not an instant to lose--be quick."

"Oh, yes! I can take you in the direction," said the girl.

She turned down a corridor; Effie followed her. The servant walked rather slowly and in a dubious sort of way.

"Can't you hurry?" said Effie. "It is a matter of life and death."

The girl hastened her steps a little. Effie's manner frightened her.

Presently they reached a baize door--the servant pushed it open, but stood aside herself.

"It is as much as my place is worth to open this door," she said. "It is here the infectious case is, and Miss Fraser's own orders are that the door is not to be opened; but you frighten me somehow, miss, and I suppose there's no harm in it."

"No, of course there is no harm. Now, tell me which is Miss Fraser's room?"

"The nurseries are entered by the third door as you go down that pa.s.sage, miss."

The servant banged to the baize door, and Effie found herself alone.

She ran down the pa.s.sage, and opened the outer nursery door. It was quiet and still, in perfect order, the blinds down, and the windows open. Effie, in spite of all her agitation, walked on tiptoe across this room. A door which led into another room was half open, and she heard someone moving about. That step, so quiet and self-possessed, must belong to Dorothy.

"Dorothy! Dorothy! come here," called Effie.

Dorothy Fraser, in her dressing-gown, came out to the other room at once.

"Effie!" she exclaimed. "Effie Staunton!"

"Yes, it is I," said Effie; "it is I." She began to unpin her hat as she spoke. "I have come here to stay; I am going to nurse little Freda, and you are to go back to father. The gig is waiting outside, and you can easily drive old Jock. Drive him straight home, and go as fast as ever you can."

"Is your father ill, Effie?"

"Yes; he has taken the diphtheria. He is very ill. Mother sent me for you. If father dies, mother will die. They love each other so dearly--so very dearly. One couldn't live without the other. Go, and save them both, Dorothy, and I will stay with Freda."

"You are a dear, brave little girl," said Dorothy.

She went and put her strong arms round Effie.

"I will go at once," she said. "But are you prepared to take full charge here, Effie?"

"Yes; tell me quickly what is to be done!"

"There's nothing to be done now but simply to see that Freda doesn't take cold. She is not free from infection yet, but she is quite out of danger, if she does not catch a chill. Treat her as you would any sick child. Rhoda is here. She is a capital girl, and will help you with Freda's food. Freda may come into this room for a little to-day, but you must see that she keeps out of a draught. Good-by. Effie. I won't be any time getting ready. I'll send you telegrams about your father. G.o.d bless you, Effie."

CHAPTER IX.

From the first it was a bad case. The throat was not so particularly affected, but the weakness was extreme. All imaginable devices were resorted to, to keep up the patient's strength. Notwithstanding all human precautions, however, that strength failed and failed.

In a few days the strong man was like an infant. He could not lift a finger, he could scarcely turn his head, his voice was completely gone.

His stricken soul could only look dumbly into the world through his eyes. Those honest eyes were pathetic. Dorothy was unremitting in her attentions. She took complete charge from the very first. Dr. Edwards came and went, but he gave the nursing to Dorothy. She had prepared herself for a great fight. She had hoped to conquer, but on the third day of the doctor's illness she knew that the battle was not to the strong nor the race to the swift--in short, the good doctor was called to render up his account, his short span of mortal life was over.

One evening he had lain perfectly still and in a state of apparent stupor for several hours. Dorothy stood at the foot of the bed. Her eyes were fixed on the patient.

"It is strange how much I admire him," she said to herself. "I never met a n.o.bler, truer-hearted man."

"Dorothy, come here," said the doctor.

She went at once, and bent over him.

"I am going," he said, looking at her.

"Yes, Dr. Staunton," she answered.

He closed his eyes again for a moment.

"The wife," he murmured--"does she know?"

"I am not sure," said Dorothy in her quiet, clear voice, which never for a moment sank to a whisper. "I think she must guess--I have not told her."

"She had better know," said the doctor. "Will you bring her here?"

"Yes, I'll go and fetch her at once."

Dorothy left the room. She stood for a moment on the landing.

The task which lay immediately before her made her spirits sink. She knew just as well as Dr. Staunton did how precarious was Mrs. Staunton's tenure of life. She knew that a sudden shock might be fatal. Were those children to lose both parents? The doctor was going,--no mortal aid now could avail for him,--but must the mother also leave the children?

"I do not know what to do," thought Dorothy. "She must see her husband--they _must_ meet. He is the bravest man I know, but can he suppress his own feelings now--now that he is dying? No, no, it is too much to ask; but I greatly, greatly fear that if he does not, the shock will kill her."

Dorothy went slowly downstairs. She was generally decisive in her actions. Now, she trembled, and a terrible nervousness seized her.

When she reached the little entrance hall, and was about to open the door of the parlor where she expected to find Mrs. Staunton, she was surprised to come face to face with a tall, bronzed young man, who was taking off his hat and hanging it on one of the pegs in the hat-rack. He turned, and started when, he saw her. He was evidently unfamiliar with nurses and sickness. His face flushed up, and he said in a sort of apologetic way:

"Surely this is Dr. Staunton's house?"