"How?" she cried, imperatively. "I will know." A light was dawning on her. She was recalling a case of which she had read in some old paper where the doctor lost his life to save the patient.

Danby frowned slightly, and his face looked worn and old. He was unaccustomed to be doubted or to have his authority questioned.

"If you will know, I shall insert this in the throat," he replied, deliberately advancing towards the cot, "and remove the mucus by suction."

"But you might catch the disease?"

"Possibly."

"You might--you might die?"

"Well?"

He was bending towards the child, and gently rubbing the tube with his handkerchief. With a sudden movement she flung herself between him and the crib, and placed her outstretched palms against his broad chest.

"You--shall--not!"

Her agonised touch, the expression of her wild, troubled eyes, made Dot's heart thump within him, but his face showed no sign.

With seeming severity he clasped her wrists and drew her to the adjoining dressing-room.

"It is a matter of life and death--your child's. I dared not tell you how serious--I hoped to save you alarm. Now there is no time to spare."

With that he returned to the room, closed the door, and locked it, leaving her in a pa.s.sion of tears on the other side. Then he rang for the nurse, and proceeded.

Though at first his very soul seemed shaken with suppressed emotion, in a few seconds the sight of the infant's sufferings, its near approach to suffocation, overwhelmed all remembrance of his own personality, and restored the equilibrium. One thought of the woman, and his frame had throbbed and shivered like the forest trees in March; another, the greater, n.o.bler thought of his science, his sacred mission at the hands of his Maker, and the trembling fingers grew steady.

With accuracy and judgment he inserted the shining channel into the windpipe of the sufferer; with patience and deliberation he held the end of the instrument in his mouth and sucked!

And all the while from the inner room came the sound of sobs--the pa.s.sionate wail of the woman who had betrayed herself, who stood self-accused of neglecting her child. He heard the grievous sound as he strained the poisonous mucus from the tiny throat and breathed the death-laden air into his lungs. He knew that he swayed on the bridge between life and eternity; that possibly--nay, probably--he should never hear the sweet enchantment of her voice again; that if he should die it must be without so much as a pressure from her hand; and yet the great heart never wavered, but beat evenly like the pulse of some grand cathedral clock, which, spite of marriage chime or funeral knell, pursues its steadfast purpose for ever.

At last the work was over, and its reward, the free respiration of the little sufferer, was a.s.sured. Then a feeling of dizziness crept over his brain, and he hastened home, but not before summoning his partner to relieve him.

When Doctor Davis arrived, he learnt from the nurse and Mrs Cameron what had taken place. He was a practical, prosaic person, c.u.mbered with a delicate wife and up-growing children, and censured Danby's conduct as foolhardy in the extreme.

"Is he bound to catch it?" asked Phoebe, with concern.

"Most certainly," replied the physician, scowling. He liked Ralph, and thought him much too sound a fellow to be lost through idiocy. "I believe there have been cases to the contrary--some solitary exceptions."

"But even then," pursued she, anxiously, "he need not die? He will recover?"

"Ten to one against it," said the doctor, bluntly, quite unconscious that the ghastly pallor of his questioner was due to more than weary watching by her child.

But Danby did recover. His magnificent const.i.tution pulled him through in a manner little short of the miraculous. Perhaps hope had some occult healing power unknown to those who watched and tended him.

At the end of six weeks the burly "Dot" was himself again, and once more made his way to the little house in Mervan Street in glad expectation. A terrible disappointment awaited him. Phoebe major was not at home!

Phoebe minor, however, executed gleeful saltations in honour of his arrival.

"How is 'oo, Dot Dandy? Twite, twite well? Phoebe pray Dod every day make Dot well!"

The big man stooped and kissed the tiny prattler, and thus avoided the necessity for speech. His heart seemed to have risen in his throat, and made a huge lump there.

Hurriedly taking his departure, he determined to call another day, but though he went again and again, it was with no better luck. Then he understood that Mrs Cameron's repeated absences were not the result of accident, but of design. She had been kind in her daily inquiries after him, but now that he had recovered, she was decided they should not meet.

A few days later the child had a feverish cold, and to his chagrin he heard that Doctor Davis had been sent for. That made it quite evident he was not wanted. He made no effort to go, but smarted under the sense of injury. His better reason argued that as she had intentionally broken with him, she could not demand his attendance on the infant without risk of unavoidable meeting. But why had she so behaved? Had he not saved her child, the light of her life, the aim of her future? Had he not determined studiously to forget her accidental show of anxiety for him, prompted by ignorance of the child's immediate danger? Why had she asked after him daily? Why had little knots of flowers been left by bairn and nurse, and why, ah, why! had the wee lips uttered a prayer for him?

"Perhaps the child had acted of her own impulse," sighed his modesty.

"Perhaps she had been so taught," panted his hope.

At last he determined to end the estrangement or let friendship perish in the attempt. He wanted nothing but her forgiveness; that he felt he deserved.

He knew every afternoon at five the nurse was relieved by Mrs Cameron, who watched in the nursery while the babe slept. That hour, therefore, was chosen for his visit. He mounted the stairs two at a time and rapped at the familiar door. There was no answer. He turned the handle and entered.

Phoebe major sat at the open window idle. She was reading the picture promise of the clouds. Phoebe minor in a cot slept rosily in the far corner of the room.

"Good afternoon," he whispered softly, in order not to disturb the little slumberer.

Mrs Cameron extended a hand, but no smile greeted him. She scarcely turned from her study of the skies. Poor Danby's heart felt sore and heavy laden. He asked a few trivialities regarding the invalid's health, and each query received an appropriate reply--nothing more.

He had taken a seat facing hers by the window, but even then only a profile view of the face he loved was accorded him.

At length he could endure no longer.

"Mrs Cameron, I regret having come instead of Davis. He was engaged. I had no idea I should be so unwelcome. Have I offended you irremediably?"

"No. Yes!" she corrected.

"How?"

He bent forward to induce her gaze to rest on him, but was foiled.

"If you will not tell me, how can I make amends? Was it because I locked you from your own room?"

"No."

He noticed the tight grasp of her soft fingers against the window-sill.

She was not as callous as she wished to appear.

"Was it because I treated the child without your leave?"

"No."

Her frame shook slightly, and two crystal drops which she was too proud to wipe away stood in her eyes.

Very gently he covered her hand with his own great one; very softly he whispered in a voice he could scarcely steady:--