"You have found him!" cried the girl, hurrying toward him. "Ned, he isn't dead!" Ned smiled and put out a steadying hand. "We hope not--and we think not. But he is unconscious, Margaret. Don't get your hopes too high. I had to send for you--I thought you ought to know--what we know." "But where is he? Have you seen him?" Ned shook his head. "No; but Frank says----" "_Frank!_ But you said Frank was unconscious!" "No, no--they aren't both unconscious--it is only McGinnis. It is Frank who told us the story. He--why, Margaret!" But Margaret was gone; and as Ned watched her flying form disappear toward the Mill House, he wondered if, after all, the last hours of horror had turned her brain. In no other way could he account for her words, and for this most extraordinary flight just at the critical moment when she might learn the best--and the worst--of what had come to her lover. To Ned it seemed that the girl must be mad. He could not know that in Margaret's little room at the Mill House some minutes later, a girl went down on her knees and sobbed: "To think that 'twasn't Bobby at all that I was thinking of--'twasn't Bobby at all! 'Twas never Bobby that had my first thought. 'Twas always----" Even to herself Margaret would not say the name, and only her sobs finished the sentence. CHAPTER XXXIX Robert McGinnis was not dead when he was tenderly lifted from his box-like prison, but he was still unconscious. In spite of their marvelous escape from death, both he and his employer were suffering from breaks and bruises that would call for the best of care and nursing for weeks to come; and it seemed best for all concerned that this care and nursing should be given at the Mill House. A removal to Hilcrest in their present condition would not be wise, the physicians said, and the little town hospital was already overflowing with patients. There was really no place but the Mill House, and to the Mill House they were carried. At the Mill House everything possible was done for their comfort. Two large airy rooms were given up to their use, and the entire household was devoted to their service. The children that had been brought there the night of the fire were gone, and there was no one with whom the two injured men must share the care and attention that were lavished upon them. Trained nurses were promptly sent for, and installed in their positions. Aside from these soft-stepping, whitecapped women, Margaret and the little lame Arabella were the most frequently seen in the sickrooms. "We're the ornamental part," Margaret would say brightly. "We do the reading and the singing and the amusing." Arabella was a born nurse, so both the patients said. There was something peculiarly soothing in the soft touch of her hands and in the low tones of her voice. She was happy in it, too. Her eyes almost lost their wistful look sometimes, so absorbed would she be in her self-appointed task.