"Hush, dear, be still; we have sent to learn the truth. Dear, dear Phyllis, do you care so much?" sobbed her aunt.
Phyllis turned her head away without speaking. So much! Ah, now, too late, she knew how much. And she had wounded Alan, had thought her work might suffice her, and had told him he was not necessary to her happiness!
That was like her, not to know how dependent she really was, to go on happily in her little ways, nor know what was her most precious possession till too late.
That was the cruel thought—too late, too late!
As she lay there, numb with agony, Phyllis saw the long, blank years ahead, wherein Alan's dear, leaping step should never fall on her ear again, and could not face them. Thank heaven! Jessamy and Barbara had found their joy, and it would not be marred in its first sweetness by knowledge of her agony.
A step came up the stairs; it was curious—would it always be like this, Phyllis wondered. Should she always fancy all steps like his? It sounded so much like Alan, but Alan was dead, crushed—
"Where's my dear, poor Phyllis? 'Twas a cruel trick," cried a voice, and all the house rang with Phyllis's cry of: "Alan, Alan!"
There was need of no more words. Trembling, scarce trusting her eyes, Phyllis lay looking up at Alan—Alan in the flesh, come back from the dead, and to her!
"I have learned that you are necessary, Alan; I should have died if it had been true," she whispered.