When daylight came, they carried Mary down to her own pretty room and did all that science and love could suggest to relieve her sufferings; but in spite of everything, the child grew steadily worse; and the Doctor was at last obliged to admit that double pneumonia had set in.

"You had better bring the babies to her for a few minutes," he said to his sister. "She has a very high fever and is liable to become delirious. A peep at the twins will satisfy her and perhaps ease her mind later on."

"Sweet—darling—" Mary murmured as the babies were held up before her. "Soon—again?"

"Yes, pet, Mother will bring them to see you very often. Try to sleep now," urged her uncle.

Oh, the long, long days and nights of suffering and grief and anxiety. Though the twins were the delight of the household, they had not been members of the family long enough to twine themselves about the hearts of all as had the dear little girl who was never happier than when making others happy. The servants vied with one another to do her some little service. Old Susie surpassed herself with her delicious broths and gelatines over which she spent more time than she did on the meals for the family; Liza hurried with her other duties so as to be able to devote more time to the babies and leave Aunt Mandy free to help Sister Julia; Tom sat by day and night on the top step of the stairs, ready to run errands,—a task which, by the way, he had always disliked. Even Debby, who had known the little girl less than two months, almost sobbed aloud at sight of the wan little face framed in a mass of golden hair. Indeed, so blinded was she by her tears, that she stumbled about and upset so many things that Sister Julia gently took her dust cloth from her and finished putting the room in order. As for the father, mother, and uncle, Mrs. Selwyn's words just after her brother had told them the dreaded truth, will best express the thoughts that filled their minds.

"Perhaps it is wrong to feel as I do, Rob,—that it would be far easier to lose both of our babies than our little Mary."

"You are merely speaking the thought that is in all our hearts, Elizabeth, and it is only natural that we should feel as we do. In one sense, the babies are just as dear to us as Mary is; but they have not yet entered into our very life as she has done by her own winning ways. So, if she is taken from us, we shall miss her far more than we should either, or even both, of the twins. I doubt whether Berta or Beth could ever quite fill the void which her loss would cause in our lives. But we shall not think of that now. Let us hope for the best and pray that, if it be God's will, our darling may be spared to us. We can trust Frank to see that everything possible is done for her."

"Poor Frank! He could not love her better if she were his own child. I have telephoned to Sister Florian to ask the prayers of the Sisters and pupils, and, of course, I called Maryvale early this morning. Mary asked me to let her know Frank's decision."

"I shall go now to telephone to her. Try to get a little rest before dinner."

Alone with Mary, Sister Julia seized the chance to have a little talk with her.

"There is one very important thing, dear, in this kind of illness, and that is the fight which the patient herself makes."

"Fight, Sister? You mean that I must punch something the way I saw boys doing to each other out on the sidewalk one day?"

"No, dear, I mean that you must make up your mind that you are going to get well as soon as possible and——"

"And I am, Sister. I take my medicine even though it has a very bad taste. I try to remember what you told me about our Lord—that they gave Him a bitter, bitter drink when He was hanging on the cross and said, 'I thirst.' But—but I can't help screaming sometimes when the pain is so dreadful. I seem to forget everything then."

"Indeed, you have been very good and patient, dear; but in spite of the pain and the bad dreams, you must say to yourself, 'I am going to be well and strong very soon.'"

Often in the days which followed, when Mary was delirious from fever and pain, the hearts of those at her bedside were wrung by her cry, "But I am going to be well and strong soon, I am, I am!" Then she would beg them not to let her fall into the big, black hole where wicked men were waiting to stick long knives into her. Sometimes, she knew those about her for a few minutes, but the greater part of the time she was not conscious. Sister Madeline and Sister Austin came in from Maryvale to see her; Sister Florian with a companion called several times; but the little girl had no memory of their visits when asked later about them. Father Lacey called one afternoon and read a Gospel over her; but she gave no sign that she knew he was there until after he had left the room. Then she murmured, "Sister—was Father Lacey—here?"

"Yes, dear, he has just left the room."

"I—would like—to see him,—please."

The priest, who had stopped in the hall to speak to Mrs. Selwyn, returned and seated himself at the bedside, saying cheerily, "Do not try to talk to me, dear child. I am glad you are awake so that I can tell you how much all your little friends at the convent miss you. They are praying very hard for you every day, and so are all the Sisters. Yes, I know you wish me to thank them for you."

"Did—the girls—go to—Confession—yet, Father?"

"Yes, Mary, they made their first Confession last week."

"Mine—now?—I know—how."

"Certainly, my dear child; but you must let me do most of the talking. I shall ask you questions, and you will just answer them," and Father Lacey again slipped his stole about his neck as Sister Julia left the room.

After he had said with her the Hail Mary which he had given as a penance, Mary's mind again began to wander; and when Sister Julia returned, she was babbling of those tell-tale, little white birds with blue heads and red tails and yellow ribbons about their necks.

"Truly an angelic little soul, Sister," said the priest. "I greatly fear that she will not be with us long. What does Doctor Carlton say of her condition?"

"He will not say anything, Father."

"And I suppose it is not quite the thing for you to express your opinion. When is the Doctor at home?"

"This is the first time in several days that he has left the house, Father. He spends the greater part of the day and night with the child. His devotion to her is touching. I have sometimes wondered at his great gentleness with children, even though he has several times spoken of his small niece and repeated her quaint remarks to amuse his little patients; but I understand it all now. If she does not recover, more than half of his life will go out with hers. And the poor father and mother! They have already lost two little boys, yet they are so patient and resigned. You will have to know Mary better than you do, Father, to understand just what her loss would mean to this home. The servants fairly worship her. No little queen could have more faithful subjects. It is a marvel that she is not badly spoiled."

"Her mother is too wise a woman to permit that, Sister. I admit that I do not know the child as you do, but I have seen enough of her to feel sure that she is all that you say of her, and that her loss would be a great blow. I find her so well instructed that, if the Doctor thinks she will not recover, I shall allow her to make her First Communion.[1] I have not mentioned the matter to her, however. Speak to the Doctor as soon as he comes in, and if he thinks that there is grave danger, let me know when she again becomes conscious, and I shall come at once. At all events, I shall call again to-morrow."

The next morning, three of the finest doctors of New York gathered with Doctor Carlton about the sick child, sadly shook their heads, and quietly went away. In the afternoon, the Doctor himself opened the door for the priest and drew him into the library.

"I would have telephoned to you last evening, Father, but it was useless to do so, for my little niece has not been conscious since your visit yesterday. I have little hope that she will become so before—the end. I have known from the first that she could not pull through except by a miracle. Humanly speaking, it is now merely a question of how long her heart can hold out."

"Humanly speaking, yes, Doctor; but the days of miracles are not passed, and He Who raised the dead to life is still the all-powerful God. Mary became conscious yesterday just after I had read a Gospel over her. I feel that our Divine Lord permitted it so that she might make her first Confession for which she was preparing when she became ill. He may permit the same thing to happen to-day so that she may make her First Communion. I am going now to the church for the Blessed Sacrament. Ask Sister Julia to have all in readiness when I return."

But though Father Lacey prayed long and earnestly over the little girl, and her mother and the nurse spoke close to her ear of the happiness awaiting her, Mary gave no sign that she understood. Then the priest anointed her and raised the Blessed Sacrament in benediction above her; and promising to come again the moment he should hear that she had become conscious, he returned to the church.

The long night began. The house was very quiet, for Mary had ceased to moan and cry out, and lay perfectly still, her breath coming in little gasps. Close by her pillow sat the Doctor, his watch in his left hand, the fingers of his right on the child's fluttering pulse. Across from him knelt Sister Julia, her eyes never wavering from his haggard, gray face as she watched for the least sign from him that something was needed. Her lips moved in prayer as the beads slipped through her fingers. At the foot of the bed knelt Mr. Selwyn, his arm supporting his wife, his head bowed on the railing where Mary had so often during the past week seen the strange little birds hopping about. Tom was at his post at the head of the stairs; and Aunt Mandy and Liza had taken the babies down to the kitchen so that nothing would disturb the little sufferer.

The hours dragged on. Midnight passed. The child's breathing grew fainter—then a great stillness fell upon the room. Mr. Selwyn looked up with a start, and his wife clung closer to him. The Doctor had slipped to his knees, his eyes on the still, white face. Suddenly, the little eyelids fluttered open, the big blue eyes looked straight into Mr. Selwyn's, then rested for an instant on the Doctor, while a wan little smile flitted across the child's face. A faint sigh issued from her parched lips, and her eyes closed. The Doctor raised his hand. No one stirred. Was it life or death? Did they hear the rustle of angels' wings, or was it the murmur of the night wind?

The father's eyes sought the Doctor's face, and soon a look of wonder and doubt crept over it. By degrees, the wonder increased, and the doubt disappeared, and two great tears of relief rolled down the haggard face which turned toward Mr. Selwyn with a smile, while the warning hand remained uplifted.

Close to the mother's ear, the father whispered just one little word; then carried her into the next room where, some minutes later, the Doctor joined them. Mr. Selwyn stepped out into the hall, and the next instant, Tom, shoes in hand, was making all possible speed toward the kitchen.

Slowly, oh, so slowly, the little girl crept back from the chill, dark shadow into the warm, bright love-light waiting to envelope her. It would be many and many a long day before she would be able to play with the babies and romp with her little friends; but to those who loved her, it was happiness enough just to have her still among them.

Several remarks that were made caused Mary quite a little surprise.

"But I tried and tried to tell you ever so many times that I was going to get well, Mother. Didn't you hear me?"

"Yes, darling; but, for once, we did not believe you. You can hardly blame us for that, however, when Uncle Frank and three of the finest doctors in the city had said that you could not recover."

"Hm! I think I shall ask Uncle to take me to see those doctors some day just to prove to them that God can make people well if He wants them to get well."