Mam’selle was fully roused by now and her eyes were riveted upon her dog. He stood near the door all a-bristle, as if awaiting the entrance of one he knew and loved. Then he whined and capered about for all the world as if he were fawning at the feet of someone. "Nick, come here!" But Nick paid no heed. "None of that, sir!" The cold sweat stood on Jo Morey’s face. "None of that!" Then, with a gasp, "You, too, heard the steps, the steps that have no right here. Nick!" And now the dog turned and came abjectly toward his mistress. He looked foolish and apologetic. "We’re both going mad!" muttered Jo, but bent to soothe poor Nick before she turned to the north chamber. Under the spell of her dream she trembled, and was filled with apprehension. How quiet the sick room was! The candle sputtering in its holder made flashes of light and cast queer shadows. The girl was not sleeping, her eyes were wide open, her hands groping feebly. "Father," she moaned as Jo bent over her, "father, where are you? I’ll remember, father. The name—Mam’selle Jo Morey, and she will understand!" Then—all was still, deadly, terribly still. During the past weeks of strain and watching a door had been gradually opening into a darkened room, but now a sudden light was flashed and Jo saw and understood! Undoubting, stunned, but keenly alive, she believed she was looking upon Henry Langley’s child and felt that she had always known! It was most natural, Langley had been coming home to her: because he could trust her; knew that she would understand. Understand—what? But did that matter? Something had happened, Jo meant to find all that out later. Now she must act, and act quickly. The crisis had not passed; it was here. Jo set to work and for hours she fought death off by primitive but effective means. She knew the danger; counted the chances and strained every nerve to her task. When morning came she saw she had saved the girl and she dropped by the bedside, faint and listless, but lifting up her soul, where another woman would have prayed, to the Power that she acknowledged and trusted. Mam’selle did not send for Marcel Longville, she was given strength to go on alone for a little longer. The sick girl rallied with wonderful response to Jo’s care which now had a new meaning. She was docile, sweet, and pathetically grateful, but she did not want Jo long out of her sight. "It is queer, Mam’selle," she sometimes said, "but when you go out of the door it seems as if something, a feeling, got me. And when you come in again, it goes." "What kind of a feeling, child?" "I do not know, but I am afraid of it and _It_ is afraid of you. You’re like a light, making the darkness go. When I was sickest, sometimes I felt I was lost in the blackness. Then I touched your hand, and I found my way back."