Doctor Laurens had a profound admiration and regard for his brother’s wife, and declared that Cecil, who had always been a lucky fellow, had capped the climax of his good fortune in securing such a beautiful and charming bride. It was therefore with the greatest consternation and distress that he beheld Molly’s condition, and heard from the indignant maid the cause of it—a cause which lost nothing in the telling, for Phebe had warmly espoused the side of her helpless young mistress.
Doctor Laurens ran his eyes hastily over his brother’s letter that lay where it had fallen by Molly’s side, and then he bent his attention to restoring her to life from the deep swoon that had enchained her consciousness.
“Poor little girl, poor little girl!” he sighed over and over as he lifted her in his strong young arms and bore her to her chamber preceded by the attentive maid, who turned down the covers of the white bed and deftly disrobed Molly’s slight form, while Doctor Laurens waited patiently outside.
“Now then, you may come in, sir,” she said, opening the door; and entering quickly the young physician exerted himself to the utmost limit of his skill in restoring Molly to consciousness.
Phebe, who was an intelligent, middle-aged woman, aided him all she could; but success came slowly, and the woman cried out in alarm that she feared her young mistress was dead.
“No, she is not dead. Her heart beats faintly. She will revive presently,” said Doctor Laurens, and he added something in an undertone at which the woman exclaimed, excitedly:
“I thought so myself, and I hinted it to the dear child sometime ago, but she was so bashful she would not believe me. Oh, this makes it all the worse for the poor creature, and Mr. Laurens was cruel to leave her, no matter what she had done.”
Doctor Laurens answered, gravely:
“I am sure my brother did not know this important fact or he would have acted differently, Phebe.”
“Yes, sir,” said the woman, dropping him a profound courtesy.