She stole back to the sick-room, and Leslie returned to Marjorie.

Marjorie was now sitting up on the bed. Her chin rested on her hands; her eyes, with a startled, strained look in them, turned slowly to Leslie when she entered the room.

"I heard you talking to nurse," she said. "Did she-did she-tell you-anything?"

"Nothing special, dear, except that she was sure I might stay here. I could not find your mother, and nurse took the responsibility of giving me leave."

"Oh, of course you may stay. It is not that I mean; but did she tell you anything-anything about Eileen?"

"I asked her if Eileen were in danger," said Leslie, "and she said, 'We are doing all we can for her; but in G.o.d's hands are the issues of life.'"

"Oh, then it is hopeless," said Marjorie. "I-I always thought it was."

She got off the bed as she spoke. She was trembling so excessively that she nearly fell. Leslie went up and tried to put her arm round her waist.

"Don't touch me," said Marjorie. "I can't bear anyone to touch me now.

It is all too true. They have been trying to keep the truth from me. Did I not read it in their faces? Even the doctors have deceived me. Leslie, oh Leslie, if you saw her now you would not know her."

Marjorie came up close to Leslie as she spoke.

"Her face is so sunken, and, oh, so white, and her eyes so very big. You know what lovely eyes Eileen always had-so soft in expression, so full of the soul which animated all she ever did, or thought, or said; but now, Leslie, now if you could see them-they have a sort of spirit-look.

She was always unearthly, and now she is going away. She is going to the better and the spiritual world; and I, oh Leslie, I can't bear it."

Marjorie turned away, walked to the window, rested her elbow on the sill, and looked out.

"I cannot, cannot bear it," she repeated at intervals.

Leslie remained motionless for a few minutes; she was thinking hard.

"Of course," she said, after a long pause, "there is only one thing to be done."

"Only one thing-yes, I know what you mean. I am to quiet myself, to crush back my misery, my despair. Yes, I'll do it. I'll wash my face and hands, and make my hair tidy and go back to her again. She never loved anyone in all the world as she loved me. I am her twin, you know, and twins are so close to each other, fifty times closer than the ordinary brother and sister. I'll go back to her, and I'll stay so quiet that even the nurses won't have anything to complain of. You need not remain in this house after all, Leslie, for I cannot be with you. I must return to my darling."

"And by so doing be dreadfully selfish and injure her," said Leslie.

"Selfish, and injure her!" repeated Marjorie.

"Yes, injure her, and take away the faint chance there may be of her life."

"But you cannot mean that, Leslie. What possible harm can I do her? How perfectly ridiculous you are! I injure my own Eileen? Why do you speak in that way? It is impossible that I could injure her."

"I know you will injure her if you go back. You don't look natural, Marjorie. You must try to subdue your emotion. You are much too flushed, your eyes are too full of anxiety. The very tone of your voice is all strain. Now, Eileen ought to have no anxious person in her room. So much depends on all that sort of thing being kept out of the sickroom; and, dear,"-Leslie's voice shook,-"I don't know that I ought to say it, and yet I will-there is one thing to be done."

"Speak. How mysterious you are!"

"Let us pray for her, Marjorie; let us ask G.o.d to save her. It is all in His hands. Let us ask Him to spare her life."

Marjorie stared at Leslie, then she clutched hold of her hand, squeezed it, and said eagerly:

"Do you-do you think He will?"

"I cannot say; but we might try. He will, if it is right."

"Then let us go straight off to a church and ask Him. I always feel as if I could pray better in a church."

"Yes; we will go at once," said Leslie.

CHAPTER XXV

THE PRAYER OF FAITH.

In her shabby serge dress, the marks of tears still round her eyes, her cheeks flushed, her short hair tossed, Marjorie Chetwynd ran downstairs, accompanied by Leslie. Mrs. Chetwynd was still lying in her room trying to have a little rest; Lettie was writing letters to anxious friends.

The girls had just opened the door when they saw Belle Acheson coming up the steps.

"How is she now?" said Belle. "Why, dear me, Leslie, how very quickly you got here, and you look as if you were quite at home. How is Eileen, Marjorie? By the way, you look rather bad yourself."

"Please don't speak about me; it doesn't matter whether I am ill or well," replied Marjorie. "Don't keep me now, Belle. Eileen is as ill as she can be, and I am going to pray for her. Leslie says that is the only thing to do, and we are both going to church. Will you come with us?

Surely the more who pray to G.o.d the better."

"I will certainly come," replied Belle quietly.

She turned at once, and the girls walked down the street side by side.

There was a church at the farther end of the square, a church which was open all day to those who needed it.

The three girls entered. It was hot outside, but here it was still and cool. They walked up the aisle, and turned into one of the pews and knelt down. Marjorie knelt in the middle; her head was pressed upon her hands.

Leslie had always found prayer easy; in her short life she had prayed a good deal, finding prayer the greatest support in each hour of trial; but of late, since her own great trouble had come, she had almost forgotten to pray, and now it seemed difficult. It was not until she ceased to remember herself, and thought only of her friend, that her words went up to G.o.d, at first in broken utterances, then more earnestly and more full of faith. A low sob came from Marjorie's lips. This sob was echoed by Leslie. Belle had taken up a prayer-book, had opened it, and was reading in a semi-whisper some of the prayers for the sick.

After a very few moments Marjorie rose to her feet.

"I have prayed," she said; "I have told G.o.d exactly what I want. He will hear. He must. It would be wrong, cruel, monstrous for Eileen, beautiful Eileen, to die. Come home now, Leslie," she continued.

The three left the church as silently as they had entered. It was not until they reached Marjorie's door that Belle spoke.

"Good-by, Marjorie," she said, holding out her hand; "good-by. I will call again. But before I go, tell me-do tell me-if you seriously believe in all this?"

"I--" said Marjorie-she hesitated; the look of peace which had dawned upon her worn and anxious face left it. Before she could reply, Leslie answered with flashing eyes:

"Marjorie believes, or she could not have prayed as she did; and of course I believe," she continued. "I believe in a G.o.d, and that He answers prayer."

"I wonder if he will," said Belle, with a queer, new sort of expression on her face. "It will be very strange. I shall be most curious to know.

Good-by, Marjorie-good-by, Leslie."

She turned and walked down the street. When she had gone a couple of hundred yards she turned back, and called out to the other girls, who were still standing on the steps of the house:

"I will come to-morrow to find out. It will be very curious if it is true. It will make an immense difference to me."