"Nonsense!" said Gerald, with utmost sternness. "Don't talk about dying.
I won't allow it." And then she suddenly put down her head beside
Phebe's, and burst into tears.
CHAPTER VIII.
GERALD OBEYS ORDERS.
In an incredibly short time Denham brought back not only Dr. Dennis, whom he had caught just setting out for a stolen game of whist with Mr. Upjohn, during the absence of that gentleman's wife at prayer-meeting, but also Soeur Angélique, whose mere presence in a sick-room was more than half the cure. And then he sat in the dark, disordered room below, impatiently enough, anxiously waiting for news from Phebe. The time seemed to him interminable before at last the door opened, and Gerald entered, bearing a lamp. The vivid light, flung so full upon her, showed traces of passionate weeping; and her white dress all scorched and burned and hopelessly ruined, with the rich lace hanging in shreds from the sleeves, made her a startling contrast indeed to the usually calm, self-possessed, perfectly-dressed Gerald Vernor.
Denham sprang forward to take the heavy lamp from her. "How is she, please?"
Gerald started. "What, you here?"
"Did you think I could leave till I knew?"
"Oh, of course not, I had forgotten you. I was only thinking of Phebe."
"But how is she?"
"Better. She is burned about the shoulders and a little on the arms, but not seriously, and nothing that will disfigure. It is so fortunate. The doctor is still with her, but she is much easier now, and there is nothing to fear."