But upon reaching home the current of her thoughts was soon turned in another direction.
Effie was ill!
There was no gainsaying it this time. Fanciful she might be, and others for her, but the shock and the fright of the fire had been too much for her. She had lapsed into unconsciousness during the drive home with her father, and now, though put to bed and with the doctor in attendance, she had shown no signs of animation.
Sheila was not permitted to go up to the room, and glad was she that Oscar was with her. Suppose Effie should die! The thought sent the blood ebbing from Sheila’s cheeks.
“Oh, I wish I had cared more for her, I wish I had not been so selfish so often. Oscar, I begin to be afraid I am selfish. I do think first what I like myself, and then I try to invent reasons for doing it. I have so often left Effie alone and gone out riding, or doing things that amused me. Oh, I wish I hadn’t now!”
“I’m afraid we’re all rather like that,” answered Oscar. “I know I am. Perhaps things like this—that fire, and now Effie—are sent to pull us up and make us think. It came over me when for a moment one wondered whether there would be any getting out, how little one had done with one’s life. Perhaps it will help us to think more, Sheila. I’m sure I need it.”
“If you do, I do much more,” said Sheila; and they sat clinging together in the dusk, till at last the sound of steps and voices on the staircase roused them, and Sheila started up crying—
“Oh, there is the doctor. Let us go and ask him.”
He was coming down with Mrs. Cossart; she was looking greatly upset, but his face wore a look of grave cheerfulness, and they heard him say—
“Yes, she will want care—great care—for some time to come, but there is nothing to agitate yourself about—no probability of a return of that condition. Let her be kept perfectly quiet, and she will sleep right away now. What I have given her will ensure that. I will look in first thing to-morrow morning.”