Days passed, and Phil grew no better. Millie came to visit him as soon as she was allowed. He was happier after he had seen her; for she looked no worse than usual—a little paler perhaps, that was all. The only drop of comfort in Phil's bitter cup of sorrow was that he had saved his sister; he had risked his life for hers. He recollected some sweet words that he used to hear his mother read on Sunday evenings at Chormouth:
"'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'"
He was still greatly perplexed as to how Millie could possibly have been in the house on the fatal night of the fire, unknown to him, and begged her to explain the mystery.
She told him, as Dr. Bethune had already done, that as one of their party was not forthcoming, Miss Crawford had considered it wiser for all to postpone the journey till the following day. She then went on to say that she returned to Swift Street feeling utterly worn out, and with a severe headache that increased as the evening advanced. Her uncle came in about nine o'clock, but by that time she was so unwell that, after putting the supper on the table, she was obliged to go to her room and lie down.
Very soon she fell into a sound sleep—so sound a sleep, indeed, that even the crash of the drawing-box as it tumbled to the floor did not disturb her. Poor child! She was accustomed to noises all day and all night. She awoke to find herself half suffocated with smoke; and great was her horror, on opening the door, to see their sitting-room in flames. She endeavoured to escape down the staircase, but fear paralysed her limbs, and she sank senseless to the floor.
Phil knew what followed.
She supposed her uncle awoke on the first alarm of fire, and in the confusion and terror of the moment completely forgot her. But, Millie said, he had scarcely mentioned the awful occurrences of that night, and she dared not break upon his reserve, and question him.
Phil rarely spoke to the doctors and nurses, except to thank them for their kindness and attention. To Dr. Bethune, however, he sometimes opened his heart.
"Will you tell me the truth, Sir?" he said one day, as Dr. Bethune stood by his bedside. "Will you tell me if there is any hope for me?"
"I can hardly say at present, Phil," the doctor replied. "Yours is a very bad case, and we do not see the improvement that we expected; but there is no immediate danger. When there is, you shall know, I promise you. All that human skill can do for you will be done, rest assured of that."