When Miss Crawford came that afternoon accompanied by Millie, he made the same inquiry of her. But she hesitated, and Millie's lips quivered as her eyes met her brother's.
"O! Do tell me," he said anxiously. "Surely I shall walk again some day!"
Then very gently Miss Crawford told him his spine had been so injured by the fall of the burning wood that the doctors feared he would never recover from the effects, though in time he might perhaps walk with the help of crutches.
"What! Lie still all my life long?" he moaned when she had finished. "Never walk nor run again! O! I can't bear it. I'd rather die."
A sob from Millie broke the silence that ensued.
"O my darling brother," she said, as she knelt by his bedside, "I will be legs, and feet, and arms, and everything to you, if you'll only let me. Uncle knows about it, and he is so sorry for you. He would have been to see you, only he's afraid that the sight of him would distress you. And he says, Phil, that he'll never touch that dreadful drink again as long as he lives, and that you shall never want for a home as long as he has health and strength to work for you. And he means it, dear. He is so good and kind now."
All this Millie sobbed out at intervals, but Phil made no reply.
"Don't think it unkind of me," he said presently, "but I'd rather be alone for a while. I can't talk about it yet."
So they said good-bye to him, and Miss Crawford did what she had never done before. She put back the thick black hair from his forehead, bent down, and as she kissed him, he heard her whisper, "'Nevertheless not my will, but Thine, be done.'"
All through that night, a storm of conflicting emotions raged in poor Phil's heart. He said to himself that he could not, would not live to endure so cruel a fate. What, never walk, nor run, nor jump again? Never draw himself up to his full height, and feel that delicious sensation of strength and power tingling through every vein in his body? Be a helpless cripple all his life long—a thing as useless as a log of wood? Be compelled to lie perfectly still? Be at the entire mercy of others, utterly dependent upon them for the gratification of every wish, the supply of every want? No, it was too hard a punishment for such a sin as his had been. What was it but a few passionate words, a small act of revenge, committed under great provocation? How was he to know that such dire results would be the consequence? They had not been his desire. Besides, had he not acknowledged and repented of his sin? Had he not gone almost beyond human power to make atonement? O it was cruel! It was most unjust!