she tried to shut her ears, she would hear Ralph's groans in hissickroom close by. Oh, what was the use of going away? Of course, shewas not ill, and it would be horrid at Uncle Joe's; and suppose--supposePhyllis got ill! But of course she would not. Why should she? If onlyshe might go and stay with Phyllis at the Hall? If only she could findher way to the attic where the rocking-horse and the baby-house were!But, of course, Mother would not agree to that.
"Rosie, wake up," said her mother; "you are half asleep, dear. Why doyou not take your breakfast?"
"I am not hungry, Mother."
"Does your head ache?"
"Yes, Mother, a little."
"How is your throat?"
"It only hurts a very little. I am all right, Mother. Is that the cabat the door? Are we to go?"
"Wait a moment, my dear."
Mrs Hilchester went into the hall. Her husband was waiting to take Nedand Rosie away with him.
"Well," he said, "are the children ready? I really must be off; thereis a wedding at twelve o'clock to-day, and it is some distance to mybrother's."
"Rosie cannot go," said poor Mrs Hilchester.
"What! is she bad too?"
"I fear it; I greatly fear it. We cannot send her away until we aresure."
"Well, anyhow, Ned is all right. Jump into the cab, Ned, and let us beoff."
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
A very malignant form of scarlet-fever had showed itself already in thevillage, and the Rector's children were some of the first victims. Tosay that Miss Fleet was shocked when she received Mrs Hilchester's notewould but lightly explain the state of that good woman's feelings. Shewas so horrified that she forgot to scold Phyllis for her act, as shetermed it, of disobedience; on the contrary, she flew to the little girland clasped her in her arms, and said in a broken whisper:
"We must pray for your little sick friends. Let us kneel down here atonce and pray."
"Yes," answered Phyllis in some surprise.
Miss Fleet fell on her knees, and Phyllis clasped her governess's handand looked up into her face.
What Miss Fleet said aloud was quite comprehensible to Phyllis andsoothed her very much. She asked God that the sick children mightrecover, and she spoke of them with affection and again called themPhyllis's friends. But what she did not say aloud was perhaps the mostearnest part of her prayer, for in that she asked God to forgive her fornot being as kind and sympathetic to Phyllis and to the Rectory childrenas she might have been, and she implored of God most earnestly theprecious, most precious life of the only child.
That day a telegram reached Squire Harringay in Edinburgh. It was fromthe governess this time, and its purport was so grave that he decided toreturn home that day. He turned to the friend with whom he wastransacting business and said:
"I have just had rather a nasty shock. You know, of course, that I haveonly one child, my little Phyllis, the apple of my eye, as you may wellunderstand. Well, some children, friends of hers, have contracted avery bad sort of scarlet-fever, and she has been exposed this morning todirect infection. I hope that God will be merciful, and that the childmay have escaped. But I am best at home, Lawson, and will leave here bythe next train."
Early the next morning Phyllis was made happy by the arrival of herfather. He could not pet her too much, nor look at her too often, normake enough fuss about her. Phyllis wondered why every one was now sokind, and why the children of the Rectory were spoken of as her dearlittle friends, not only by Nurse and Miss Fleet, but by every one inthe house.
"But they were scarcely my friends. I mean--I mean," said Phyllis asshe sat on her father's knee that evening--"I mean that I love them mostawfully, but Fleetie did not wish me to love them. She would not havecalled them my friends; she did not until they got ill."
"When they recover you shall see plenty of them," said Mr Harringay;"and now, my darling, let us talk of something else."
But Phyllis was not happy unless she was allowed to talk of the Rectorychildren. She told her father everything--all about that picnic tea inthe attics, and poor Rosie's longing for the rocking-horse and thebaby-house.
"Could not they be sent to her--couldn't they, Father? She would be soglad to have them; even if she was ill and her throat was sore, shecould look at the rocking-horse and perhaps play with the baby-house."
"No, no," said the Squire. "No, no; we will keep them until she iswell. But I will tell you what, Phyllis; we will have that baby-housedown to-morrow, and you shall furnish it in the nicest and mostfashionable style. You and Miss Fleet shall go out in the afternoon andbuy new furniture for the entire house."
"Yes, what a lovely idea!" said Phyllis, and the thought cheered her up.
But nevertheless she was very sad during the next few days. Those wholoved her watched her with anxiety.
The children at the Rectory were very ill, and little Rosie especiallywas the one nigh unto death. There came a day when the doctor fearedthat little Rosie might not recover. It was Rose who had kissed Phyllisso passionately; it was Rosie who, if any one, had given the little girlthe dreaded infection. Mr Harringay had a curious feeling thatPhyllis's life hung on the life of Rosie. He spent the entire day goingbetween the Hall and the Rectory to make inquiries.
"Very ill. Very bad. Quite unconscious. Scarcely any hope. May lasttill the morning; not sure."
Such were the varied bulletins. Mr Harringay did not dare to tellPhyllis how bad her little friend was. Ralph and Susie were already outof danger; it was Rose whose life hung in the balance. Early the nextmorning the Squire got up and went across the fields to the Rectory. Hecould scarcely bring himself to raise his eyes to see if the blinds wereall down or not. He walked straight up to the door. There the Rectorhimself greeted him.
"Well, well?" said the Squire. "Speak, my dear friend; I can scarcelyexplain what I feel for you."
The Rector grasped his hand.
"Better news," he said; "she has slept for the last three or four hours;indeed, she is sleeping still. Both the doctor and nurse think that shemay awake out of danger."
"Thank God!" said the Squire.
He went back home. Although he had not entered the house, he would notmeet Phyllis until he had completely changed his dress. He came down tobreakfast. If Phyllis had taken the infection she ought to show somesymptoms that morning. But Phyllis's little fresh face looked as bonnyand bright as ever, and her eyes were as clear and her appetite as keen.In a remarkable way the Squire began to feel the load which had restedso heavily on his heart begin to lift.
"Phyllis," he said, "Rosie has been very ill, but I think she will getbetter."
"Will God make her quite well if we ask Him?" said Phyllis to herfather.
"Do ask Him, my child; do," said the Squire.
Phyllis rushed out of the room. She came back presently and sat down ina contented way to her breakfast. She ate with appetite.
"Are you not anxious, Phyllis?" asked her father.
"Not now," she said in a cheerful tone.
"I spoke to God, you know, and it is all right."
"Bless the child," said the Squire.
Late that day the news came that Rosie was out of danger.
"Then Phyllis was right," said the Squire. He caught his littledaughter to his heart, and kissed her many, many times.
After all Phyllis did escape, and the three children at the Rectory gotwell. Ned did not sicken at all with the dreaded fever. When they werewell enough the Squire himself insisted on sending them to the seaside.There they got strong and brown and bonny, and came back with as gayspirits and as fond of Phyllis as ever. It was a very happy day whenthe Rectory children and Phyllis met once more in the old attic. TheSquire was in their midst this time, and there was no naughtinessanywhere about, and Phyllis had found playmates at last.
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The End.
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