"Don't talk, my boy," said Dr. Bethune. "I will explain it to you, and then you must lie still, and try to go to sleep. Millie is well and uninjured. You saved her life. Had it not been for your heroism and noble self-forgetfulness, she must have perished in the fire. Unfortunately a burning piece of wood fell upon your shoulder before you reached the bottom of the stairs. I fear you will have a good deal of pain to bear, but we are clever people here, and mean to pull you through if such a thing be possible." "I don't understand," said Phil feebly and making long pauses between each sentence, "I don't understand how Millie came to be at home. I thought she had gone away with Miss Crawford. I took her to the station myself." "And they would have gone, Phil, but at the last minute it was found impossible for one of the children, a little crippled boy, to leave London until the following day. He could not travel alone, and Miss Crawford thought it better to wait for him. So Millie went home again." Phil closed his eyes. His throbbing head would not let him think, and the pain in his back made him sick and faint. He tried to move, but with a low moan of agony, he gave up the attempt, and lay with a white face and knitted brow, trying to bear his suffering as best he might. "Poor fellow!" said Dr. Bethune compassionately. Then he gave him a draught that seemed to have the effect of deadening his pain, for presently he fell asleep. Days passed, and Phil grew no better. Millie came to visit him as soon as she was allowed. He was happier after he had seen her; for she looked no worse than usual—a little paler perhaps, that was all. The only drop of comfort in Phil's bitter cup of sorrow was that he had saved his sister; he had risked his life for hers. He recollected some sweet words that he used to hear his mother read on Sunday evenings at Chormouth: "'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'" He was still greatly perplexed as to how Millie could possibly have been in the house on the fatal night of the fire, unknown to him, and begged her to explain the mystery. She told him, as Dr. Bethune had already done, that as one of their party was not forthcoming, Miss Crawford had considered it wiser for all to postpone the journey till the following day. She then went on to say that she returned to Swift Street feeling utterly worn out, and with a severe headache that increased as the evening advanced. Her uncle came in about nine o'clock, but by that time she was so unwell that, after putting the supper on the table, she was obliged to go to her room and lie down.