FOR a little while there was a dreadful commotion down there in the hall. Hannah and cook had come, too, by this time, and everybody was crying, and rushing about, and all talking at once,—telling everybody else what to do. Poor Nonie was awfully frightened; at first she couldn't do a thing but cry, and I was just as bad,—I'd got to that pitch that I didn't care who saw my tears.

But nurse kept her head splendidly; generally she gets all worked up over the least little sickness, but this time she kept cool, and told us what to do.

"Don't talk so foolish, Master Phil!" she exclaimed sharply, when Phil said that awful thing about Fee. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself,—frightening your sister that way! He ain't no more dead 'n you are."

Well, if you'd seen the look of hope that flashed into Phil's face! "Oh, nurse!" he gasped, "do you honestly think so? But he isn't breathing,—I can't feel his heart beat."

"That's 'cause he's in a swoond," nurse answered briskly. "Here, lay him down flat. Now rub his feet—hard; Hannah, slap his palms,—that'll start up a cirkilation. Here, Miss Nora, fan your brother. Cook, fill them hot-water bottles; if the water in the biler ain't hot 'nough, start your fire immejiate. Master Jack, you run for the doctor; an' if he can't come," she added, dropping her voice so that only I heard her, "get another. Don't you come back here without somebody. An' be quick's you can."

That told me that she wasn't as sure about Fee as she pretended to be, and the hope that had come up in my heart died right out. My eyes got so blinded with tears that I just had to grope for my hat; but as I was opening the outer door, I heard something that brought me in again in double quick time.

It was a cry from Phil,—a shout of joy: "He is breathing! Oh, he's breathing! His eyes are opening!"

Sure enough, they were. Slowly the heavy lids raised, and Fee's near-sighted eyes looked blankly up at Phil.

"Don't you know me, old fellow?" Phil asked with a break in his voice, bending eagerly over Felix.

A sweet little smile flickered over Fee's lips. "Phil," he said faintly; and then, with what we could all see was a great effort, he raised his hand slowly and let it fall heavily on Phil's hand.

Poor Phil! that broke him down completely. Catching Fee's face between his two hands, he kissed him warmly two or three times, and then, dropping his head down on Fee's shoulder, burst into a storm of sobs.

"Oh, come, come! this'll never do!" cried nurse, bustling forward. "Come, Master Phil, this ain't any time for sich behaviour,"—mind you, she was wiping the corners of her own eyes! "Now we must get him up to his own room soon's possible; then we can make him comfort'ble. Can you carry him up? Me and Hannah can help."

"I can do it alone," Phil said quickly, beginning to gather Fee into his arms. But I tell you it was hard work getting him up, he was such a dead weight!

Fee knew Phil was making a desperate effort to lift him, and he tried, poor fellow, to help all he could. When at last Phil stood erect, with him in his arms, nurse raised Fee's hands and joined them back of Phil's neck. "Now clasp your hands tight, Master Felix," she said, "and that'll take some of your weight off your brother."

Fee's hands were actually resting one on the other, and I saw his fingers move feebly, trying to take hold of one another. Then he said in a slow, frightened whisper, "I—can't—make—them—hold!" and his arms slipped down, one of them swinging helplessly by his side, until nurse laid it in his lap.

"Never mind, don't worry about that, Fee; I can get you up," Phil said cheerfully. "Why, don't you remember I took you almost up to your room the other night?"

Nora and I looked at each other. I know we were both thinking of the same thing,—that happy evening when we heard of aunt Lindsay's plan for Fee, and when Phil had picked Felix up and run so gaily up the stairs with him, singing. Was it possible that was only three or four evenings ago! It seemed years.

"Run for the doctor, Master Jack—don't loiter," nurse said, as she fell in with the procession that was moving so slowly up the stairs; Phil was going one step at a time, and sometimes sliding himself along against the banister to rest the weight he was carrying.

I rushed out and up to Dr. Archard's as fast as I could go. The streets through which I went were very lonely,—I scarcely met a creature,—but I didn't mind; in fact, the stillness, and the stars shining so clear and bright in the quiet sky, seemed to do me good. I knew Who was up there above those shining stars; I thought of the poor lame man that He had healed long ago, and as I raced along, I just prayed that He would help our Fee.

Dr. Archard was away, out of town, the sleepy boy who answered the bell told me; but Dr. Gordon, his assistant, was in,—would he do?

I didn't know him at all,—he'd come since papa's illness; but of course I said yes, and in a few minutes the doctor was ready and we started.

He had a nice face,—he was years younger than Dr. Archard,—and as we hurried toward home and began talking of Felix, I suddenly made up my mind that I would tell him about the attack Fee had had when papa was so ill. That promise of mine not to speak of it had always worried me, and now, all at once, a feeling came over me that I just ought to tell Dr. Gordon everything about it,—and I did.

He asked a lot of questions, and when I finished he said gravely, "You have done very right in telling me of this; the knowledge of this former attack and his symptoms will help me in treating your brother's case."

"Is it the same trouble?" I asked eagerly.

"Certain symptoms which you have described point that way," he answered; "but of course I can say nothing until I have seen and examined him."

"Could such an accident"—I'd told him that Fee had struck his back against a chair and then fallen—"do anybody—harm?" My heart was thumping as I put the question.

"Under some circumstances, serious harm," the doctor said. And just then—before I could say anything more—we came to our stoop, and there was Hannah holding the door open for us to go in.

The doctor turned every one out of Fee's room but Phil and nurse; and he was in there an awful long time. And while Nonie and I sat on the upper stairs waiting for news, what did I do but fall asleep! and I didn't wake up until the next morning, when I found myself in my own bed. It seems that Phil had undressed and put me to bed, though I didn't remember a thing about it. I felt dreadfully ashamed to have gone to sleep without hearing how Fee was, but you see I was so dead tired, that I suppose I really couldn't keep awake.

Did you ever wake up in the morning with a strange sort of feeling as if there was a weight on your heart, and then remember that something dreadful had happened the night before? Well, then you know just how I felt the morning after Fee got hurt. For a moment or two I tried to make myself believe it was all a bad dream; but there sat Phil on the edge of our bed, and the sight of his wretched white face brought back the whole thing only too plainly.

"Oh! how is Fee?" I exclaimed, sitting up in bed. "What does the doctor say about him?"

Phil's elbow was resting on his knee, his chin in his palm. "The doctor says," he answered, with, oh! such a look of misery in his tired eyes, "that Felix is not in danger of death, but it looks now as if he might not be able to walk again!"

"Oh, Phil, Phil!" I cried out; then I sat and stared at him, and wondered if I were really awake, or if this were some dreadful dream.

"His back was weak from the start," went on Phil, drearily, "and probably would have been to the end of his life; but at least he would have been able to get around—to go to college—to enter a profession. Now all that is over and done with. Isn't it awful!"

"Oh, but that can't be true," I broke in eagerly. "Why, Phil, Fee was in a dreadful way that last attack, I told the doctor about it,"—Phil nodded; "he couldn't stand on his feet at all,—and yet he got better. Oh, he may now; he may, Phil, only with a longer time! See?"

"I thought of that when Gordon told me what you had told him, and I begged for some hope of that sort,—begged as I wouldn't now for my own life, Jack." Phil's voice got so unsteady that he had to stop for a minute. "After a good deal of talking and pleading," he went on presently, "I got him to admit that there is a bare chance, on account of his being so young, that Fee may get around again, in a sort of a way; but it's too slim to be counted on, and it could only be after a long time,—two or three years or longer. Dr. Archard'll be in town to-morrow, and they will consult; but Gordon says he's had cases of this kind before, and knows the symptoms well. I think he would have given us hope if he could. You see Fee isn't strong; oh, if it had only been I!—great, uncouth, ugly brute that I am!" Phil struck his hand so fiercely on the bed that the springs just bounced me up and down.

"Fee's feet and legs are utterly useless," he began again; "his spine is so weak he can't sit up. Even his fingers are affected,—he can't close them on anything; he's lost his grip. And he may lie in this condition for years; he may never recover from it. Oh, think of that, Jack!" Phil broke out excitedly; "think of it! Our Fee, with his splendid, clever mind, with all his bright hopes and ambitions, with the certainty of going to college so near at hand,—to have to lie there, day in and day out, a helpless, useless creature! And brought to it by my doing,—his own brother! Oh!" He drew his knee up, and folding his arms round it, laid his face down with a moan.

I slipped over to his side and threw my arm across his shoulder. "Phil, dear," I said, to comfort him, "try and not think of that part; I'm sure Fee wouldn't want you to. You know he had that other attack—and—perhaps this would have come any way—"

But Phil interrupted, looking at me with those miserable, hollow eyes. "Not like this," he said. "Dr. Gordon told me himself that the blow Fee got was what did the mischief this time; with medical care he might have got over those other attacks. Gordon didn't dream that I was the infuriated drunken brute who flung him against that chair. Drunken! I think I must have been possessed by a devil! That I should have raised my hand against Fee,—the brother I love so dearly, my chum, my comrade, mother's boy, of whom she was so tender! Oh, God! shall I have to carry this awful remorse all the rest of my life!" His voice broke in a kind of a wail, and he threw his clinched hands up over his head.

"Oh, Phil, dear Phil! Oh, please don't," I begged. "Oh, Fee wouldn't want you to talk like this."

"I know he wouldn't. God bless him!" Phil answered in a quieter tone, dropping his arms by his sides. "Oh, Jack, it cuts me up awfully to see him lying there so cheerful and serene when he knows that what's happened has just spoiled his whole life—"

"Oh, does he know?" I exclaimed.

"He insisted on knowing, and bore it like a soldier. When I broke down he smiled at me, actually smiled, Jack, with, 'Why, old fellow, it isn't so bad—as all that'—o-oh!" Phil choked up, and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face deep in the pillows, that Fee in the next room might not hear his sobs.

That was a miserable day. Dr. Archard came quite early, and after the consultation we heard that, in the main, he agreed with Dr. Gordon. "Still," he said to Nora and me, as he was going, "Felix may surprise us all by recovering much faster and more fully than we expect. The thing is to get him out of town just as soon as we can, and in the mean time to follow directions and keep him quiet and cheerful. Phil seems to have taken charge of the boy, and I do believe he's going to develop into a nurse. I'll send you round a masseur, and I'll write to your father, so he'll not be alarmed. Keep up your spirits, and your roses, my dear," patting Nora's cheek. Then he got into his carriage and drove away.

Because the doctor said that about keeping Fee quiet, no one but Phil or nurse was allowed in his room all day. But late in the afternoon nurse let me take something up to him,—she had to see to the children's dinner, or something or other downstairs; she said if Phil were with him I wasn't to stay.

I knocked, but not very hard,—my hands were pretty full; and then, as nobody answered, I opened the door softly, and went in. Fee was lying sort of hunched up among the pillows, which weren't any whiter than his face. Oh! didn't he look delicate!

He had on his glasses again, and now his eyes were shining through them, and there was a very sweet expression on his lips. Phil was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking in a low, unsteady voice: "I didn't really care for them," he was saying, "and there were times when I fairly loathed them; but somehow they got round me, and—I began to go there regularly. They drank and gambled; they said all young fellows did it, and they laughed at me when I objected. I held out for a good while,—then one night I gave in. I was a fool; I dreaded their ridicule. There were times, though, when I was disgusted with myself. Then I began to win at cards, and—well—I thought I'd save the money for a purpose; though in my heart I knew full well that—the—the—the person I was saving for wouldn't touch a penny got that way. Well, then something happened that made that money I was saving quite unnecessary, and then I just played to lose. I wanted those fellows to have their money back; after that I thought I'd cut loose from 'em. That was the reason I wanted to go back to Chad's that night,—was it only last night? It seems like years ago!"

Phil dropped his face down in his hands for a minute; then he went on: "I started out this morning and gave each of the fellows his money back. They didn't want to take it,—they think me a crazy loon; but I insisted. I've got beyond caring for their opinion. And now, Fee, the rest of my life belongs to you; you've paid an awful price for it, old fellow,—I'm not worth it. Think of your college course—your profession—all the things we planned! I'm not worth it!"

Phil's voice failed, but he cleared his throat quickly, and spoke out clearly and solemnly. "Felix," he said, "I will never play cards again as long as I live; and I will never drink another drop of liquor,—so help me God." He raised his hand as he spoke, as if registering the oath. Then he bent over and buried his face in the bed-clothes.

Slowly Fee's poor helpless hand went out and fell on Phil's head. "What is all the rest compared with this," he said, oh, so tenderly! then, with a little unsteady laugh, "Philippus, I always said there wasn't a mean bone in your body." And then Phil threw his arms round Felix and kissed him.

I laid what I had brought down on the table, and went quickly away, shutting the door a little hard that they might know somebody'd gone out. I should have left just as soon as I found they were talking,—I know I should,—but it seemed as if Phil's words just held me there. I've told Phil and Felix all about it since then, and they say they don't mind my having heard; but between what I felt for them both, and for my having done such a mean thing as to listen to what wasn't meant for me to hear, I was a pretty miserable boy that afternoon.

I flew upstairs to the schoolroom, and throwing myself down on the old sofa I just had a good cry. It seems as if I were an awful cry-baby those days; but how could a person help it, with such dreadful things happening?

Well, I hadn't been there very long when in came Nora and opened the windows to let in the lovely afternoon light, and of course then I got up.

I guess I must have been a forlorn-looking object, for Nora smoothed my hair back off my forehead and kissed me,—she doesn't often do those things. "I'm going to write to Nannie," she said, laying some note-paper on the schoolroom table. "It is the first minute I've had in which to do it; perhaps,"—slowly,—"if she had been here, all this trouble might not have happened. Why don't you send Betty a few lines, Jack? You know she will want to hear of Fee; but don't frighten her about him."

So I thought I would write Betty,—I owed her a letter. After all, she wasn't having at all a bad time with the Ervengs; in fact, I fancy she was enjoying herself, though she was careful not to say so.

Nora and I were sitting at the same table, but far apart, and I'd just called out and asked her if there were two l's in wonderful—I was writing about Fee—when the schoolroom door opened, and in walked Chad Whitcombe! As usual, he looked a regular dandy, and he held a bunch of roses in his hand. He came forward with his hand out and smiling: "I've—aw—just called in for a minute," he said. "I thought—aw—you might care for these flowers—"

But Nora rose quickly from her chair, pushing it a little from her, and putting her hands behind her back, she faced him with her head up in the air. My! how handsome she looked,—like a queen, or something grand like that! "I thank you for your polite intention," she said very stiffly and proudly, "but hereafter I prefer to have neither flowers nor visits from you."

Well, you should have seen Chad's face! he'd been stroking his moustache, but now, positively, he stood staring at Nora with his mouth open, he was so astonished. "Wha—what's wrong?" he stammered. "What've I done?"

Then Nora gave it to him; she didn't mince matters,—truly, she made me think of Betty. "What have you done?" she repeated, opening her grey eyes at him. "Oh! only acted as I have never known any one calling himself a gentleman to act. Mr. Whitcombe,"—with a toss of her head equal to anything Betty could have done,—"I will not have the acquaintance of a man who drinks and gambles."

Then I was the one to be astonished; I didn't dream Nora knew anything about that part. Phil must have told her that day.

"And who not only does those dreadful things himself," went on Nora, "but inveigles others into doing them, too. The idea of coming here among us as a friend, and then leading Phil off,—trying to ruin his life!" Nonie's cheeks were scarlet; she was getting madder and madder with every word she said.

"Why, that isn't gambling; we just play for small amounts," exclaimed Chad, eagerly, forgetting his affectation, and speaking just like anybody. "All the fellows do it; why, I've played cards and drunk liquor since I was twelve years old. It hasn't hurt me."

"No?" said Nora, coldly. "We don't agree on that point;" then, curling her lip in a disgusted way: "What an unfortunate, neglected little boy you must have been. If Jack should do either of those low, wicked things, I should consider a sound thrashing entirely too mild treatment for him. And allow me to tell you that all the young fellows we know are not after your kind: they neither drink, nor play cards; and yet, strange to say,—that is, from your point of view,—they are extremely manly."

"I'm sorry, you know; but I didn't suppose you'd mind—so much," Chad began, in the meekest sort of tone. "You always seemed to understand lots of things that the others didn't, and—"

But Nora interrupted: "I made allowances for you," she said, with her little superior air, "knowing that you had lost your parents as a little boy, and that you had had so little—now I will say no—home training. Besides, I thought, perhaps"—she hesitated, then went on—"that perhaps the others were a little hard on you; it seemed rather unjust, simply because you were—well—different from ourselves. But I didn't imagine for one moment that you were this sort of a person. It isn't honourable to do those things,—don't you know that? It is low and wicked."

"I only wanted Phil to have a good time; I never thought he was such a baby he'd get any harm," exclaimed Chad, a little sulkily, getting awfully red, even to his ears. "And as to Felix, he came of his own free will. It's he that has told you all this, and set you up against me. Felix doesn't like me, and he hasn't taken any pains to hide it. I don't see why he came up there last night, if he thinks we're so wicked."

"I will tell you why," cried Nora; "he came in the hope that seeing him there would shame Phil, and induce him to get out of such a set. And it has gotten him out,—though not in the way that Fee expected. When I think of all that has happened since you and Phil went out together last evening,—of all the trouble you have brought on us,—I really wish you would go away; I prefer to have nothing more to say to you."

She made a motion of her hand as if dismissing him, but Chad never moved. He just stood there, holding the roses upside down, and looking very gloomy. "You're awfully down on me," he said presently; then, "and A'm awfully sorry. Ah wish you'd forgive me!" in such a beseeching sort of tone that I could have laughed right out.

But Nonie didn't laugh, or even smile; she just answered, a little more kindly than before: "It's not a question of my forgiving you that will set the matter right; the thing is to give up that way of living. Surely there are plenty of other ways of amusing yourself,—nice honourable ways that belong to a gentleman. Then—people—would be able to respect as well as like you. I wonder that Max has let this sort of thing go on."

"Oh, he doesn't know," Chad said, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the door, as if he thought Max might be there, ready to walk in on him.

"Tell him," advised Nora,—she just loves to advise people,—"and get him to help you. You could study for college, or—go into business, if you preferred that."

Chad was looking intently at her; suddenly he threw the roses on the schoolroom table,—with such force that they slid across and fell on the floor on the other side,—and made a step or two toward Nora, with his hands extended, exclaiming eagerly, "Oh, Nora, if I thought that you cared—"

But like a flash Nora got behind her chair, putting it between herself and Chad. "Don't say another word!" she broke in imperiously, standing very straight, and looking proudly at him over the back of the chair. "Jack, pick up those flowers and return them to Mr. Whitcombe, and then open the door for him."

Chad was so startled that he jumped,—you see he hadn't noticed that I was there,—and didn't he look foolish! and blush! why, his face actually got mahogany colour. He snatched the poor roses from me and just bolted through that schoolroom door.

Well, I had to laugh; and when I turned back into the room, after seeing him to the head of the stairs, I said, "I'm just glad you gave it to him, Nonie!"

"There is nothing for you to laugh at, Jack," Nora said sharply, turning on me. "Remember you are only a little boy, and this is none of your affair." With that she picked up her writing materials and walked off. Aren't girls the funniest!

XXI.