They bathed and dressed the wound upon her brow, laved the fearfully discolored throat with arnica, wrung and dried the dripping golden tresses, and lastly Mrs. Lyle removed her soiled, wet garments and robed her in a pretty nightdress. All the while the hapless girl lay still and motionless, without a sign of life save an occasional quiver of the eyelids, and a faint, scarce perceptible throbbing in her wrist.
"My dear, you are tired and overcome," Mr. Lyle said to his wife when they had done all that was possible. "Go to your room and rest. I will stay here and watch by our little girl."
Mrs. Lyle leaned her head on his shoulder and burst into hysterical weeping.
"Oh! what does it mean?" she moaned, wringing her hands. "Where, oh! where, has Queenie been this past year?"
"My dear, we shall know when she revives, if she ever does. Go now and rest," he answered, pushing her gently from the room.
He went back to his lonely vigil and watched the weary night through by that silent form upon the bed. Now and then he rose and poured a few drops of wine between the pale, unconscious lips and sat down again with his finger upon the fluttering, thread-like pulse. At length, between the dark and the dawn, Queenie opened her eyes upon his face, sighed, and murmured:
"Papa!"
He bent over her anxiously.
"You are better, darling?" he said.
"I am better," she answered faintly.