“It is Phil,” Christine replied, “saved from the sea, I know not how, only that he is here, that he came seeking for you, and I found him with the fever, late yesterday afternoon, and did for him what I could. Then I sent for you, and the rest you know. Only be quiet now. I do not think he will die.” “Oh, save him, save him, and you shall have my love forever. I have been cold and proud, but I will be so no longer if you give me back my Phil,” Queenie said, with choking sobs, as she knelt at Christine’s feet and clasped the hem of her dress. “I will do what I can,” Christine replied, while again through every nerve throbbed the old, sick feeling which she could not put aside, even in her exquisite joy that Queenie might at last be won. “Too late; it has come too late,” she thought to herself, while to Queenie she said: “I must go to him now, for what I do must be done quickly. A few hours later and it will be too late.” So they went together to the sick-room, where Phil lay with his face turned more fully to the light and showing distinctly how pinched and pallid it was. Had Queenie’s own life depended upon it, she could not have forborne going up to him and softly kissing his pale forehead; then she knelt down beside him, and so close to him that her dark hair touched the curls of light brown as she buried her face in her hands, and Christine knew that she was praying earnestly that he might be spared to her. At last, just as the dawn was breaking and the first gray of the morning was stealing into the room, he moved as if about to waken, and with a quick, imperative movement of her hand Christine put Queenie behind her, saying as she did so: “He must not see you yet. Keep out of his sight till I tell you to come.” Fearful lest she should attract his attention if she left the room, Queenie crouched upon the floor, close beside the bed, and waited with a throbbing heart for the moment when she might speak and claim her love. Phil was better; the long sleep had done him good, but there was a drowsiness over him still, and he only opened his eyes a moment, and, seeing Christine bending over him, smiled gratefully upon her, and said: “You are so good to me.” Then he took the draught she gave him and slept again, this time quietly and sweetly as a child, while Queenie sat upon the floor, fearing to move or stir lest she should disturb him. Slowly the minutes dragged on until at last it was quite light in the room. The heavy rain had ceased; the dense fog had lifted, and the air which came in at the window was cool and pure, and seemed to have in it something of life and invigoration. “The weather has changed, thank God,” Christine murmured, while Queenie, too, whispered, “Thank God! thank God!”