Sir Wilfrid Wynne gave his verdict, and it was almost a repetition of what Dr. Burton had said. He could do nothing. There was little hope he would regain consciousness. If he did, it would be but a passing flash before the end. He might linger in his present condition twenty-four hours or longer; and he might pass away any moment without a struggle. It would be cruel to wish him to live; the shock to the spine had been so great, if he lived, he would inevitably lose the use of his lower limbs. Sir Wilfrid was grieved; he had known the boy's father. He would gladly have remained, had there been any hope of doing anything for him. He took his departure by motor-car to catch the mail train at a junction ten miles distant.

Mrs. Mandeville returned to her place by the bedside, calm and still, after her paroxysm of weeping. Colonel Mandeville was with her, and presently the Rector came into the room.

"Raymond, pray for him," Mrs. Mandeville said. "He is in God's hands. No human power can help him."

They all knelt and the Rector prayed aloud. He did not petition for the boy's life to be spared. He humbly asked that the hearts of those who loved him might be submissive to God's all-wise decree. "Thy will be done," was the dominant note of the prayer. When they rose from their knees, there was an expression on Mrs. Mandeville's face which no one had ever seen before. The prayer had not helped her: it was not submission nor resignation in any degree which had come to her. She turned to the Rector.

"I do not believe it, Raymond. This is not God's will. God could not order anything so cruel to befall a child, so loving and dutiful--whose faith in God's loving care of him has always been so beautiful to me to witness. Could I, who know only human love, suffer anything like this to befall my little Rosebud, or any of my children? Is human love more pitiful and compassionate than divine love? This dear boy could easily have saved himself; he stood between the cruel beast and my little girls. All three of them might be lying as he is lying now but for his self-sacrifice. Don't tell me it is God's will! If I could believe it, I would wish I were a heathen, and worshipped a god of wood and stone!"

The Rector could only gaze in pained astonishment. Such an outburst was so unlike his usually calm and gentle sister. He judged she was beside herself with grief. She stood with clasped hands, wide-open eyes, unseeing, yet seeing, gazing beyond the confines of that room, catching a momentary vision of that light which 'never was, on land or sea.'

She became calm again--serenely calm.

"I see it," she said. "I understand. This is not God's will. It is not His work. His compassions fail not. His love is over all His children. With Him is the Fountain of Life. Does He not say, 'I will redeem them from death'? He will save this dear child from the grave. Leave me, please. I want to be alone--alone with Carol and God. I want to realize it. Yes; God's will be done. Life, not death, is God's will. I see it, I see so clearly."

To her husband she said softly, "I will ring if I want anything, dear. Don't let anyone come into the room until I ring."

When all had left the room, and the door was closed, she knelt beside the bed, with outstretched arms. It was a mother's cry to God for the life of a child that was as dear to her as her own. Hour after hour passed, and still she knelt. Words failed her, petition ceased: the realization came to her that God is Life: in Him we live, and move, and have our being. In Infinite Life there is no death. Death never is, and never can be God's will. The knowledge, the understanding of God as All-in-all vanquishes death! "O, death, I will be thy plagues. O, grave, I will be thy destruction!" (Hosea XIII., 14.)

The morning dawned, the bright sunbeams stole into the room. The boy opened his eyes. "Auntie,"--she was bending over him--"I have been dreaming. I thought I was in a field, and a bull tossed me high up into the air. But I knew in my dream, 'underneath are the everlasting arms.' Then I dreamed again, and two men were turning me about, and moving my arms and legs, and one said, 'There is not a broken bone, nor even a dislocation. It's a miracle.' I tried to say 'underneath are the everlasting arms,' but I could not speak."

The words were very faint and low. She bent close to catch them, then stopped them with a kiss, a pÆan of joy in her heart. He spoke again: "Auntie, something is hurting me very much. I can't move."

"Do not try, darling, lie quite still. I will sit beside you and hold your hand."

A spasm of pain passed over his face, and he fell again into unconsciousness. But she had no fear, she knew that death had been vanquished by the knowledge that had come to her of life.

A low knock came to the door. She opened it, and found her maid there with a cup of tea. She took it from her saying: "Tell them all he lives, and he will live. But I wish to be alone with him for the present. No one is to trouble about me, I am quite well."

So she sat down again beside him, waiting and patiently watching, knowing that he would awake again to consciousness. It was nearly noon when he opened his eyes and spoke again. His voice was stronger:

"Auntie, was it a waking dream? Was I really in a field, and a bull tossed me? I am so aching all over me."

"Yes, darling."

"I think I remember now, Auntie. Rosebud and Estelle and Sylvia were there, and Jane called to me, 'Run, run!' They were not hurt, were they?"

"No, darling, not one of them."

"I am glad. Error is telling me I cannot move my legs and arms, Auntie. But it is not true. God's child cannot be bound like that. Does Cousin Alicia know?"

"I am sorry, Carol. I fear no one has thought to send her word."

"Will you send word now, Auntie--something quicker than a letter?"

"A telegram, dear?"

"Yes, Auntie, and put in, 'Please help Carol'."

"I will ask Uncle to send the message at once, dear."

When she opened the bedroom door, she found Colonel Mandeville pacing the corridor without. As a sentinel he had kept watch there throughout the night and a great part of the morning. He came into the room, and stood with one arm around his wife, looking down at Carol.

"Well, little man, so we are going to cheat the doctors?"

Carol didn't at all know what 'cheat' meant.

"Carol wishes you to let Miss Desmond know, dear. Will you wire at once? And say in the message, 'Please help Carol.' She will know what he means."

"I will gladly do so. Dr. Burton is downstairs, Emmeline. He had better come up now."

An expression of distress came over Carol's face.

"Auntie," he said, "don't let the doctor do anything to me, please."

"No one shall touch you, dear. But I should like Dr. Burton just to see you. He will tell me what I may give you to eat."

"I don't want anything, Auntie, only something to drink."

"Well, dear, he will tell me what will be best for you to have."

"I would like only water, please."

"You shall have some, dear, at once, and after that something else, I hope."

Dr. Burton came to the room, felt the patient's pulse, took his temperature, and looked at his tongue, but mercifully refrained from turning him about, to examine the bruises.

"I will send some medicine at once," he said to Mrs. Mandeville. "Give him a dose every hour. He has a very high temperature."

Downstairs he told Colonel Mandeville: "He may pull through if meningitis does not supervene."

But he left the house holding a very strong belief that meningitis would supervene. Not even the medicine, which was to be given every hour, could prevent it.