“It’s not so bad as we thought,” he said, in a low tone. “He was stunned by the explosion and half-suffocated with the gas; but he’s come to himself now, and the doctor says the worst is over. He’s badly cut with the glass, and burned; but his spectacles saved his eyes, and the rest is painful, rather than dangerous, so it won’t be long till he’s as well as ever.”
As Stanley gave a deep sigh of relief, Mr. Boniface put his hand on his shoulder, while he went on,—
“And the doctor, Dr. Rowe, I mean, says that if this boy hadn’t kept his wits about him as he did, we shouldn’t have had Lieutenant Wilde with us now. Nothing but his quick thought in turning off the gas and letting in more air, could have saved him. We can’t thank you, Campbell; but we can congratulate you, and admire you for the part you have played. And now I must leave you to tell the others, while I go back up-stairs. Don’t let the boys make any noise outside, for they want Lieutenant Wilde to get to sleep.” And he quietly left them.
“You’re the hero of the school, Stan,” said Jack, as the boys stood up, with a queer, dizzy feeling, now that their anxiety was at an end.
“I knew you had it in you, though,” added Alex, as they put on their caps. “There isn’t another fellow in Flemming that would have done as well, and I’m proud to call you a friend of mine.”
And they went away to tell the good news.
CHAPTER XII.
MIDWINTER REVELS.
“‘She sleeps, she sle-eps, my la-a-ady sle-e-eps.’”
But my lady was not sleeping; quite the reverse. After the excitement of an evening spent in her brothers’ room, Dorothy was still lying awake, thinking over the events of the day, when the boyish voice fell upon her ears. Rising cautiously, so as not to disturb her sleeping mother, she threw a heavy shawl across her shoulders and stole noiselessly across the room to the window. There was no moon, but the white snow below and the clear stars above made it easy for her to distinguish the scene before her. But for once, Dorothy’s eyes were heedless of the long lines of hill and valley, as she bent forward to peer down on the lawn below. It was a most romantic-looking figure who stood there, banjo in hand; and though the voice was quite unfamiliar, Dorothy was sure she could recognize the dark, oval face and flashing eyes raised towards her window as, after a short interlude, the singer went on,—