WELL, it was astonishing how things quieted down after that. Phil let go the boys, and with a shout of delight they rushed up to Nannie, and just threw themselves on her; with an arm round each, she went straight to Fee's side: "Why, Felix, are you ill? My dear, is it your back again?" As she spoke she laid her hand on his forehead, and then stroked his hair back.

"Yes," Fee said wearily, closing his eyes; "my back—and the noise!"

"Come, boys, we'll go up to the nursery and get ready for dinner. Nurse has to stay with poor papa, so I'm going to give you your dinner; and of course I want my little knights to be on their best behaviour for the occasion." Nannie drew them, still hanging on to her, toward the door.

"Oh, yes, and do stop Kathie, if you can," put in Betty. "MÄdel accidentally rocked the charger on Kathie's pet doll's head and smashed it, and she's just howled ever since. Do listen!"

Sure enough, we could all hear a long, mournful wail; then another and another; if there's one thing Kathie does well, it's crying.

"What! Esmeralda Dorothea? Poor Kathie!" said Nannie; "I don't wonder she feels badly. Come, boys, we'll go up and see if we can comfort her."

The boys looked quite jubilant! holding on to Nannie's hand, Alan threw a defiant glance at Nora as he passed her, and Judge quoted in his slow, droll way: "'My dear dolly's dead! She died of a hole in her head!'"

"Instead of petting those boys, Nannie, you ought to punish them well, or give them a good scolding!" cried Nora. "They have both been exceedingly rude and disobedient to me."

Nannie looked grieved, and the boys immediately began making excuses, which Nannie heard in silence. When they had finished, she said: "We are going upstairs to get ready for dinner, Nonie; but after that, when we are all sweet and clean, these two little men will, I am sure, come to you and ask you to overlook this afternoon's behaviour. I can't think that they really meant to be rude or disobedient to sister Nora."

Nora tossed her head, but said nothing until Nannie had gone upstairs; then she remarked: "It's outrageous the way Nannie spoils the children; did you see the impertinent look Alan gave me as he went by? You will see they won't apologise,—I know they won't;" and then she, too, walked out of the room.

But they did apologise, all the same, and very soon after, too.

"Like oil on troubled waters! What a blessing that Nannie belongs to this family!" Phil said, when we three were alone again.

"Ay, thank God for her!" answered Felix, fervently; and I felt like saying so too. Really, I don't know what we'd do without Nannie to keep the peace. It isn't that we don't love one another, for we do, dearly, and we just love to be together, too; but somehow, somebody or other's sure to get into a discussion, or a fuss, or a regular quarrel, if Nannie isn't on hand to smooth things down. I don't know how it is, but she can get us to do things that we wouldn't do for any one else, and it isn't because she coaxes, for she doesn't always; sometimes she speaks right square out, and doesn't mince matters either,—but even then we don't mind. I mean it doesn't hurt as it would from somebody else. Felix says it's because she has tact, and Betty says it's because she loves us an awful lot. I think perhaps it's both.

Well, those next two weeks were just awful! Seems now as if they'd been a tremendous long nightmare. There was Fee in bed upstairs he didn't get up or stand on his feet for nearly ten days,—he couldn't, you know, his legs wouldn't hold him up, though I rubbed and rubbed them every night till I was so tired, I felt as if I'd drop. Of course I didn't let Fee know how tired I got over it, 'cause then he wouldn't have let me rub 'em so long, and I did want to do it thoroughly.

At first Fee hadn't a bit of feeling in his legs; but gradually it came back, and at last one afternoon he managed to stand on his feet, holding on to me and the furniture,—his cane wasn't any good at all at first,—and I tell you he used to press hard, though he didn't know it. You see he was anxious to be all right as soon as he possibly could, 'cause the others began to think 'twas queer he stayed in bed so long if it was nothing but his back, and he didn't want them to know what the trouble was; and besides, he felt all the time that he should be up and helping take care of papa: there was a good deal to do, though the nurse was there, for the doctor said papa shouldn't be left alone for even a minute. So they were all very busy and anxious, or they would certainly have noticed what a long time I stayed in Fee's room every afternoon, and perhaps have suspected something.

Phil was the one Fee said he was most afraid would find out, but he was a good deal in papa's room in the afternoons, and evenings he was studying, 'cause his exams, were coming on, though sometimes he went for long walks with Chad. Chad was very often at the house at this time, but he never went in to see Fee; and after the first or second time I didn't tell Fee, for he doesn't like Chad, and I could see he didn't want Phil and Chad to be together without his being there too. We don't any of us care very much for Chad,—not half or even a quarter as much as we do for Hilliard; even Betty has to admit that, for all she makes such fun of Hill's slow ways. You see Chad puts on such silly airs, pretending he's a grown-up man, when really he's only a boy,—he's only a year older than Phil. And then he talks so much about his money, and wears diamonds,—rings and pins and buttons,—fancy! As Betty says, nice men and boys don't wear diamonds like that.

Betty is awfully rude to Chad sometimes; she calls him Monsieur le Donkey, and Dresden-china-young man, and laughs at him almost to his face. I should think he'd get mad, but he just ignores her. In fact, the only one he shows any attention to is Nora; he's all the time bringing her flowers, and talking to her in his affected way, and lately he has begun to be very friendly with Phil, though I'm not sure that Phil cares very much in return,—he's so short with Chad sometimes.

But, dear me! all this isn't what I started to say; I was telling you about those awful nightmare weeks. Well, to go back, there was Fee in bed upstairs, just as brave-hearted as he could be, but getting thinner and paler every day; and there was papa in the extension—he's slept down there ever since dear mamma died—in bed too, and desperately ill. The doctor came two and three and four times a day, and the house was kept as still as could be; we just stole through the halls, and scurried up the stairs like so many mice, so's not to make any noise, and because the constant muttering that we could hear from the sick-room made us feel so badly,—at least it did us older ones, the younger children didn't understand.

Papa doesn't usually say very much; but now he was out of his head, and he just talked the whole time, and loud, so one couldn't help hearing what he said. 'Twas about the Fetich; he called it "my book," and scolded himself because he couldn't work faster on it, so's to sell it. I tell you what, that just broke Betty and Phil all up! Then he'd seem to forget that, and begin about walking in the country with mamma, through fields full of flowers and trees and "babbling brooks,"—that's what he called 'em, and quoted poetry about them all. He never once spoke of us; it was always "Margaret, Margaret!" sometimes in a glad voice, as if he were very happy, and sometimes in a sad, wailing sort of way, that brought a great lump into our throats.

Nannie had to be in papa's room most all of every day,—the nurse said he got very restless when she wasn't around,—and as he kept getting worse and worse, she was in there lots of nights, too. Her lessons, and all the other things, had to just go, and we hardly saw her except for a little while now and then, when she ran up to sit with Felix and tell him about how papa was getting on.

After a while she began to look a little pale, and her eyes got real big and bright; but she never once said she was tired, and it never occurred to any of us—you see we were all worked up over papa—until one day Max spoke of it to Felix: he said Nannie was just killing herself, and got so sort of excited over it—Max isn't one of the excitable kind—that Fee started in to worry about Nannie. It was when he had just begun to walk about a little, and he was wild to go right down and take Nannie's place in the sick-room. But he couldn't, you know; why, 'twas as much as he could do to barely stand on his feet and get round holding on to the furniture. Then, when he realised that, he got disheartened, and called himself a "useless hulk," and all sorts of horrid names, and was just as cranky as he could be; but I felt so sorry for him that I didn't mind. Poor old Fee!

Well, from day to day papa got more and more ill; the fever kept right on and he was awfully weak, and at last he fell into a stupor. That day Dr. Archard hardly left our house for even an hour, and the other physicians just went in and out all the time. Max was there, too,—he almost lived at our house those weeks, taking all the night watching they'd let him, and doing all he could for papa and us,—and about seven o'clock that evening he came up to the schoolroom, where we older ones were. Dr. Archard had told Phil, and he had told us, that a change would come very soon,—papa would either pass from that stupor into a sleep which might save his life, or he would go away from us, as our dear mother had gone.

No one of us was allowed to stay in the sick-room but Nannie, and she had promised to let us know the minute the change came; so we five and Max were waiting in the schoolroom, longing and yet just dreading what Nannie might have to tell us.

It was a glorious afternoon: the sun had just gone down, and from where we sat—close together—we could see through the windows the sky, all rose-colour and gold, with long streaks here and there of the most exquisite pale blue and green; and soft, white, fleecy clouds that kept changing their shape every minute. When I was little and heard that anybody we knew was dead, I used to sit in one of our schoolroom windows and watch the sunset, to see the angels taking the soul up to heaven,—- I thought that was the way it went up; I could almost always make out the shape of an angel in the clouds, and I'd watch with all my eyes till every speck of it had melted away, before I'd be willing to leave the window. Of course I really know better than that now, but this afternoon as we all sat there so sad and forlorn, looking at the skies, there came in the clouds the shape of a most beautiful large angel, all soft white, and with rosy, outspread wings, and I couldn't help wondering if God was sending an angel for papa's soul, or if he would let mamma come for it—she loved him so dearly!

Betty saw the angel, too, for she nudged my elbow and whispered softly, "Oh, Jack, look!"

Just then we heard a step outside, the door flew open, and Nannie came in; her face was pale, but her eyes were wide opened and shining, and when she spoke her voice rang out joyfully: "Oh, my dears, my dears!" she cried, stretching out her arms to us, "God is good to us,—papa is asleep! He will live!" Then, before anybody could say a word, she got very white, and threw out her hand for the back of Fee's chair; Phil sprang to catch her, but like a flash Max was before him. Taking Nannie right up in his arms, as if she'd been a little child, Max went over and laid her on the sofa, then knelt down by her, and began rubbing one of her hands.

Phil flew for nurse, Nora for a fan, Betty for water, and I caught up Nannie's other hand and began rubbing it, though I could scarcely reach it from where I stood almost behind Max. I could hear Fee's chair scraping the floor as he hitched himself along toward us.

Max stopped rubbing and began smoothing the loose, curly pieces of Nannie's hair off her forehead. "Dear little Nancy Lee!" I heard him say; and then, "My brave little—" I lost that word, for Nannie opened her eyes just then, and looked up at him with a far-off, wondering look; then the lids fell again, and she lay perfectly still, while Max and I rubbed away at her hands.

In a minute or two the others came trooping in with nurse and the things they'd gone for, and pretty soon Nannie was much better. She sat up and looked at us with a smile that just lighted up her whole face,—I think Nannie is so pretty! "What a goose I was to faint!" she said, "when we have such good news! Oh, isn't it splendid, splendid! that papa will get well!" Then in a minute—before we knew what she was about—she was kneeling by Felix, with her arms round his neck, crying and sobbing as if her heart would break.

And what d'you think! in about two minutes more, if we weren't every one of us crying, too! I don't mean out loud, you know,—though Nora and Betty did,—but all the same we all knew we were doing it. Phil laid his arms on the schoolroom table and buried his face in them, Fee put his face down in Nannie's neck, and I was just busy wiping away the tears that would come pouring down; nurse threw her apron over her face and went out in the hall, and Max walked to the window and stood there clearing his throat. And yet we were all very, very glad and happy; queer, wasn't it?