There was a clock upon the mantel, and Queenie saw that it was half-past two. The early summer morning would soon break, and then she would see the face of this stranger who had called for Queenie, and whose head and hair were so like her lost Phil’s that, as she looked, with straining, eager eyes, and whirling brain, it seemed to her at last that it was Phil himself—Phil, drowned and dead, perhaps, but still Phil, come back to her in some incomprehensible manner, just to mock her a moment, and then to be snatched away again forever. But she would see him first distinctly, would know if it were a phantom or a reality lying there upon the bed within her reach, for she had advanced a few steps forward, and could have touched the head upon the pillow. “Pierre,” she said, at last, when she could endure the suspense no longer—“Pierre,” and her voice sounded to herself like the echo of something a thousand miles away, “am I going mad, or is that—is that—” and she pointed to the tall form on the bed. Not comprehending her in the least, Pierre stared at her, with a great fear that her mind was really unsettled by all the terrible scenes through which she had passed. “Is it what?” he asked, coming to her side, and she replied: “Bring the light. I must see the face of this young man. I cannot wait till morning.” “But, mademoiselle,” Pierre remonstrated, “think of the danger to him. Christine’s orders were to let him sleep; he was not to be disturbed.” “Nor shall I disturb him; but I shall see him. Bring the light!” Queenie said, peremptorily, as she moved to the other side of the bed, toward which the sick man’s face was turned. Carefully pushing down the pillow, so as to bring the features more distinctly to view, Queenie stood for one brief instant gazing upon them; then, turning to Pierre, she whispered: “Nearer, Pierre; hold the lamp a little nearer, please.” He obeyed her, and as the full rays of the light fell upon the white, pinched face of the sleeper, Queenie threw her arms high in the air, and, in a voice Pierre would never have recognized as hers, cried out: “Oh, Pierre, Pierre! _it is—it is—my Phil_—come back to me again! Christine! Christine! come, and help!” It was a loud, wailing cry, and the next moment Queenie lay across the foot of the bed, where she had fallen in a death-like swoon, while over her bent Christine. She had not left the house at all, but had sat below, waiting for some such denouement when the truth should become known to Queenie. Christine had found the young man late the previous afternoon, and recognized him at once, experiencing such a shock as had set every nerve quivering, and made her feel that at last her own strength was giving way. To save him for Queenie was her great desire, and, with a prayer on her lips, and a prayer in her heart, she worked as she had never worked before to allay the burning fever and quiet his disordered mind.