“Yes,” said Gassy, defiantly, “I did. Mrs. Willowby thought we ought to go to bed early. So we did. She let me sleep in the rose room, only I couldn’t. Mr. Willowby went to bed early, too, in the room just across the hall, and he snored awful. I stayed awake about two hours. I knew I couldn’t get to sleep unless I knew, myself, how David was, so I dressed and came. Is he going to be awful sick, Barbara? Tell me the truth; please don’t fool me!” A pair of cold little hands found their way to Barbara’s shoulders. “We hope not, dear.” “I wish I could sleep here to-night. I hate to be sent away.” “But Mrs. Willowby will worry, if she finds that you have gone.” “Can’t you telephone her that I’m here? I’ll go back to-morrow, Barbara, and I’ll be awful good if you’ll just let me sleep with you to-night. I always thought heaven was like that rose room, but I can’t sleep in it. Please let me stay here.” Barbara slipped on her bath-robe and tiptoed down to the telephone. All was quiet in the sick-room as she passed. When she reached her own chamber, Gassy was cuddled down between the sheets. She snuggled close to her older sister with a little sob. “Even rose rooms can’t keep you from worrying, can they?” she said. * * * * * In the three weeks that followed, Barbara discovered that nothing can “keep you from worrying” when the dark shadow that men call Dread of Death stands on the threshold. She marveled constantly that one frail little body could withstand such desperate onslaughts of fever and pain. David’s illness was quick of development: the drowsiness was followed by days of high fever, and these were succeeded by nights of unconsciousness which plainly showed the strain to which the little frame was being subjected. He wasted greatly under the suffering, and although her father and Dr. Curtis said, “About the same,” each day, it seemed to Barbara’s eyes that the little brother grew less human and more shadowy with every succeeding twenty-four hours. Mrs. Grafton had not been told, both physicians deciding that the shock might cause a relapse, and Barbara’s hardest duty was to keep the news from her mother. In the cheery letters that continued to go to the sanitarium at regular intervals, there was not a word of the tragedy at home, but the writing was more of a strain than the watching in the sick-room. As Dr. Grafton had predicted to Barbara, her turn came later. David took a most unaccountable dislike to Miss Graves, whose devotion to starch was the only thing in her disfavor, and he objected to her presence in the sick-room with the unreasoning vehemence of the delirious. It was impossible to dismiss Miss Graves without some valid excuse, and equally impossible to secure another nurse in Auburn. So most of the care devolved upon Barbara, much to David’s satisfaction, for he called constantly for his sister, and seemed most contented when her hands smoothed the hot pillow or gave the sleeping-draught.