Lady Darcy came out to meet her, and gripped her hand in eager welcome. “You have come! I knew you would. I am so thankful to see you. The doctor has come, and will stay all night. He has sent for a nurse——” “And—my Peggy?” Lady Darcy’s lips quivered. “Very, very ill—much worse than Rosalind! Her poor little arms! I was so wicked, I thought it was her fault, and I had no pity, and now it seems that she has saved my darling’s life. They can’t tell us about it yet, but it was she who wrapped the curtain round Rosalind, and burned herself in pressing out the flames. Rosalind kept crying ‘Peggy! Peggy!’ and we thought she meant that it was Peggy’s fault. We had heard so much of her mischievous tricks. My husband found her lying on the floor. She was unconscious; but she came round when they were dressing her arms. I think she will know you——” “Take me to her, please!” Mrs. Asplin said quickly. She had to wait several moments before she could control her voice sufficiently to add, “And Rosalind, how is she?” “There is no danger. Her neck is scarred, and her hair singed and burned. She is suffering from the shock, but the doctor says it is not serious. Peggy——” She paused, and the other walked on resolutely, not daring to ask for the termination of that sentence. She crept into the little room, bent over the bed, and looked down on Peggy’s face through a mist of tears. It was drawn and haggard with pain, and the eyes met hers without a ray of light in their hollow depths. That she recognised was evident, but the pain which she was suffering was too intense to leave room for any other feeling. She lay motionless, with her bandaged arms stretched before her, and her face looked so small and white against the pillow that Mrs. Asplin trembled to think how little strength was there to fight against the terrible shock and strain. Only once in all that long night did Peggy show any consciousness of her surroundings, but then her eyes lit up with a gleam of remembrance, her lips moved, and Mrs. Asplin bent down to catch the faintly-whispered words— “The twenty-sixth—next Monday! Don’t tell Arthur!” “‘The twenty-sixth’! What is that, darling? Ah, I remember—Arthur’s examination! You mean if he knew you were ill, it would upset him for his work?” An infinitesimal movement of the head answered “Yes,” and she gave the promise in trembling tones— “No, my precious, we won’t tell him. He could not help, and it would only distress you to feel that he was upset. Don’t trouble about it, darling. It will be all right.” Then Peggy shut her eyes and wandered away into a strange world, in which accustomed things disappeared, and time was not, and nothing remained but pain, and weariness, and mystery. Those of us who have come near to death have visited this world too, and know the blackness of it, and the weary waking.