"What are you laughing at, Miss Mischief?"
"I'm—not—laughing," Grace replied.
"Crying? My dear girl, what is the matter?"
"I'm—not—crying. I'm—merely—shivering. I'm cold."
"That's because you've a brute of a husband, who has been so wrapped up in his affairs and you that probably he has let the fire go out." He made haste to replenish the stove and to throw over his wife a traveller's rug. Then he lighted a shaded candle, looked at the thermometer, and said:—
"How strange! The mercury stands at seventy-two degrees."
But Grace continued to shiver, and, stranger still, she felt colder as the fire burned up and additional covers were placed upon her. Finally she exclaimed:—
"Oh, Phil! I'm frightened! This is something—different from—ordinary cold. It must be some—something like—paralysis. I can't move my arms or feet."
"I'll run for Doctor Taggess at once!" said Philip; but as he started from the room, Grace half screamed, half groaned:—
"Don't leave me, if you—love me! Don't let me—die—alone!"