“That was it, doctor; that was what wrought the miracle of my recovery,” exclaimed Royall radiantly, and he went on to explain: “You see, I woke up in the midst of blinding smoke and flame. I shrieked for my valet, who usually slept in a little room opening off from mine. There was no answer. The wretch had escaped, leaving me to perish. In my agony, I tried to spring from bed. My crippled limbs refused assistance, and I hung face downward, stifling, dying, in that hell of fire and smoke, shrieking and cursing, I am afraid, too, in my despair. After an eternity of waiting, till I was almost dead, I heard a voice in the room calling and praying: ‘Sherwood, where are you? I am coming. God, help me to save him if I perish myself! God, be good to me--let me atone by a noble death.’ It was Raymond, my companion. He got to me somehow, clutched me, wrapped me in bedclothes, and staggered away with me. Oh, it was so long before he got me to the outside! I thought we both must perish in the fire, but he battled on, praying, always praying, that same prayer: ‘God, let me save this man, if I perish myself!’ But I must not harrow up your feelings. His prayer was granted. He staggered to the door with me, and fell. When they got us up, he--poor fellow!--had such horrible burns on his legs and shoulders he could not live. But for me--oh, for me, a miracle had been wrought. The shock, something--perhaps the fellow’s prayers--had cured my paralysis, restored me to myself--I could walk!” The tears ran down their cheeks, while his face glowed with joy. “I cannot tell you what joy I felt, what triumph; it is beyond words,” he cried. “My first thought was for Daisie--to go to her, to hear her rejoice over my restoration. But they sent for me to Raymond, who had been taken to the hospital. I had to go. He wished to tell me something before he died--a--a secret--so I cannot tell you any more,” he added, with a meaning look at Annette. She sobbed aloud: “And he is dead, brave soul?” “No--not when I came away. He might linger some time. It was impossible for the doctors to say.” “And you deserted his dying bed, Royall Sherwood, when he had given his life for yours? Cruel!” she cried, with passionate indignation. He looked abashed for a moment, then answered: “Poor fellow! I could do him no good staying till the last, and I was eager to see Daisie, of course. Who could blame me?” “Let me go home!” the girl cried chokingly, rushing from among them to seek her mother’s sympathetic arms. Passionate sobs, a meek confession, eager entreaties, and mother and daughter set out on the first train for New York. In the gray dawn, they reached the hospital. “Is he alive yet?” “Oh, yes; and there is the barest chance he may pull through, in spite of his awful injuries. So glad that some of his friends are come at last. Poor fellow! He seemed so lonely,” said the kind nurse. Soon she was kneeling by his cot, her lips against his cheek, sobbing: