“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 who loved her watched her with anxiety.
The children at the Rectory were very ill, and little Rosie especially was the one nigh unto death. There came a day when the doctor feared that little Rosie might not recover. It was Rose who had kissed Phyllis so passionately; it was Rosie who, if any one, had given the little girl the dreaded infection. Mr Harringay had a curious feeling that Phyllis’s life hung on the life of Rosie. He spent the entire day going between the Hall and the Rectory to make inquiries.
“Very ill. Very bad. Quite unconscious. Scarcely any hope. May last till the morning; not sure.”
Such were the varied bulletins. Mr Harringay did not dare to tell Phyllis how bad her little friend was. Ralph and Susie were already out of danger; it was Rose whose life hung in the balance. Early the next morning the Squire got up and went across the fields to the Rectory. He could scarcely bring himself to raise his eyes to see if the blinds were all down or not. He walked straight up to the door. There the Rector himself greeted him.
“Well, well?” said the Squire. “Speak, my dear friend; I can scarcely explain 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 she may awake out of danger.”
“Thank God!” said the Squire.
He went back home. Although he had not entered the house, he would not meet Phyllis until he had completely changed his dress. He came down to breakfast. If Phyllis had taken the infection she ought to show some symptoms that morning. But Phyllis’s little fresh face looked as bonny and 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 rested so heavily on his heart begin to lift.