Leslie arrived at the Chetwynds’ house to see the street outside covered with straw. The knocker to the door was muffled. She rang the bell. The footman replied to her summons, said that Miss Eileen was very ill indeed, and that he did not believe the young lady could be admitted, but if she particularly wished it, he would go and inquire.

He was just stepping on tiptoe across the hall when a face was pushed outside a sitting-room door, and the next moment Lettie rushed up to Leslie.

“Oh, do come in, Leslie,” she cried. “I am so lonely and miserable, and it would be an immense comfort to see anyone. Yes, Eileen is very ill, very ill indeed. The doctor says that the typhoid is running a most severe course, and there are complications, a chance of pneumonia, if you know what that means. Come in, do. I know Aunt Helen won’t mind my asking you in, and as to Marjorie——”

“Oh! it is poor Marjorie I am so terribly anxious about,” said Leslie. “How is she bearing up? They are so devoted to each other.”

“Well, really, Leslie, to be plain with you, Marjorie is in a very extraordinary state. She simply won’t be reasonable. None of us can make her out, and the doctors are terribly annoyed with her. She cannot be got to leave Eileen’s room; we cannot drag her away. Poor Aunt Helen is in a perfectly terrible state about her. Her face is completely changed; she won’t eat anything, and only drops off to sleep when she is too tired to stay awake for a moment. Leslie, if anything happens to Eileen, Marjorie will die.”

“But surely, Lettie, Eileen cannot be so bad as all that?”

“She is very bad indeed, I can tell you; I don’t think she can be much worse. There were two doctors here this morning, and there are two nurses, a day and a night nurse, on duty; and now Dr. Ericson wants to call in a third. Eileen took that horrible fever in the buildings where the coachman lives, not a doubt of it.”

“But I didn’t know that typhoid fever was really infectious,” said Leslie.

“In the ordinary sense it is not; but a whole family were down with it in A Block, and Eileen would go to the house, and she was very hot and thirsty, and they gave her some water to drink, and now it seems that all that water was terribly contaminated. It had some of those queer little things they call bacilli in it, and Dr. Ericson said they were the bacilli of typhoid fever. How puzzling these modern scientific names are!”

Lettie sank into an easy chair, and invited Leslie to one by her side.

“The fever is not infectious to us, you know,” she continued, “and that in a kind of way is a comfort. Eileen began to be poorly and not herself a week ago. Now she is very ill and quite unconscious, and yet the very worst stage of the fever is yet to come. You cannot imagine the state poor Aunt Helen is in.”

“I earnestly wish I could help,” said Leslie.

“Well, you are helping when you come to see me, for I do want cheering up dreadfully. Belle Acheson was here for a moment or two this morning. What a terrible girl she is!”

“I like her,” replied Leslie. “I think she has a great deal in her. She at least is thoroughly out of the common.”

“I grant you that,” answered Lettie; “but preserve me from such uncommon people. Give me the everyday sort of character. Not,” she added, “that I feel unkindly towards her, and I really did try to take compassion on her unfortunate wardrobe; but that, perhaps, was because I did not like the respectability of our dear old hall to be damaged by her thoroughly disreputable appearance. Dear, dear!” added Lettie, sighing gently, “how far away all that time seems now. We looked forward so much to the long vacation; and see what has happened—Eileen so terribly ill.”

Just at that moment the room door was opened, and Mrs. Chetwynd entered. She had never seen Leslie before, and rather resented her intrusion on the scene.

“My dear Lettie,” she said, “I wish you would go up to Marjorie, for I cannot quiet her. She has left the sick-room for a wonder, and gone into her own, and there she has broken down in the most extraordinary manner. I tremble lest her cries and groans should reach Eileen’s ears. Perhaps this young lady—I did not catch her name—oh, Miss Gilroy—perhaps Miss Gilroy, under the circumstances, you will excuse us.”

“Yes, Aunt Helen, I will go up,” said Lettie; “but I don’t think I shall be of the least use. I seem to have lost all power of soothing or helping either of the girls. When I was with them at school they rather deferred to my opinion on certain matters, but now all things are changed.”

“Don’t stand talking there, dear; do go,” said Mrs. Chetwynd.

“I will go, of course, but I warn you I shan’t be the least scrap of use. Good-by, Leslie; it was kind of you to call. Miss Gilroy is one of our special chums at college, Aunt Helen, and a great friend both of Eileen’s and Marjorie’s.”

“In that case, sit down for a minute or two, Miss Gilroy. Now run, Lettie; please don’t wait another moment.”

Lettie left the room, and Mrs. Chetwynd stared at Leslie. Leslie returned her gaze with one frank and sympathetic.

“I am so truly sorry for you,” she said in her soft voice. Her brown eyes gazed full into Mrs. Chetwynd’s agitated face. “And I know what illness means,” continued Leslie very softly, “for Llewellyn—I beg your pardon, I mean my dear brother—he was terribly ill once, almost at death’s door. Oh, yes, I know what my mother suffered, and what we all felt; but he got quite well again, as strong as ever. We had a bad time, but it was over soon. It will be just the same with Eileen, I feel convinced.”

“Oh, my dear child, if I could but believe it. I never felt in such a terrible state in my life, and I know the doctors are most anxious. I must go back; I cannot add another word. Good-by; thank you for coming. Your name is——”

“Gilroy,” said Leslie.

“Thank you, Miss Gilroy, for coming. Lettie will let you know how Eileen gets on.”

“I will call again to-morrow morning to inquire, if you will allow me,” said Leslie.

“Certainly, if you wish.”

The widow spoke in an indifferent tone. She opened the door, and Leslie was just going into the hall when Lettie rushed downstairs.

“Marjorie wants you, Leslie; you are to go straight up to her this minute.”

“Marjorie wishes to see Miss Gilroy?” interrupted Mrs. Chetwynd.

“Yes, Aunt Helen; and a very good thing too. I just happened to mention that Leslie had called, and Marjorie said at once she must see her, that no one in all the world could do her so much good. Go up to her, Leslie; don’t waste time talking.”

“May I?” said Leslie, looking anxiously at Mrs. Chetwynd.

“Oh, certainly, dear, if she wishes it; but I must own——”

“Come, come, Leslie, there is not a minute to lose,” said Lettie.

They flew upstairs together, and a moment later had entered Marjorie’s room.

Marjorie had flung herself face downwards on the bed. She was wearing an untidy serge skirt, and a loose, ill-fitting washing blouse. Her tangled short hair was waved like a mop over her head. She did not look up when she heard the two girls enter the room; and when Leslie’s soft voice said, “I am very sorry for you, Marjorie.” her only reply was to clutch the pillow, round which she had clasped her arms, more convulsively than ever, and to say in a choking voice, “I wish Lettie would go away. I know she is in the room too. I want to be alone with you, Leslie.”

Lettie raised her brows, made a pantomimic sign to Leslie to show how badly she was appreciated, and stole on tiptoe out of the room.

“Has she gone?” asked Marjorie, still keeping her face hidden.

“Yes.”

“Well, shut the door, won’t you?”

Leslie did so.

“Turn the key in the lock, please.”

“Oh, Marjorie! is that right to your mother?”

“I won’t see mother, and I won’t see Lettie. Lock the door, will you, at once?”

Leslie instantly turned the well-oiled key in the lock. When she had done so, Marjorie sat up, pushed the hair from her forehead, and looked at Leslie from between her swollen eyelids.

“I feel so dazed,” she said.

Her face was red and inflamed in parts, and deadly white in other parts, her eyes had sunk into her head, and their color was almost washed away with violent weeping.

“Oh, come close, Leslie,” she said, suddenly stretching out her arms; “let me lean against you.”

Leslie went up to her; she clasped her own strong arms round her, laid the tired, flushed face against her breast, pushed back the hair with one of her hands, and began gently to stroke the hot cheek.

“There, darling, there,” said Leslie. She did not say anything more, not even “I am sorry for you,” but she kept on repeating the “there, darling, there,” until Marjorie, like a tired baby, closed her eyes, and actually dropped off to sleep.

Leslie sat motionless, bearing the weight of the tired girl’s head on her shoulder. Marjorie slept for about ten minutes, then with a violent start she looked up, saw Leslie, and clutched hold of her with a fierce strain.

“Oh, I have had such an awful dream,” she said. “I thought you were here, but that you would not stay, and that Eileen was lying on the bed dead, and that you would not let me touch her. Oh, I am glad it was a dream, and that you are here. You will stay now, won’t you? I can just bear to be away from Eileen when you are here, for you are not like others; you seem to understand. Will you go and find mother, and ask her to let you stay with me?”

“Could we not ring the bell and tell the servant, and perhaps your mother would come here?”

“But I won’t have her in the room; she does worry me so dreadfully.”

“She is in great trouble, too,” said Leslie. “You ought to be kind to her, Marjorie.”

“Oh, don’t begin to lecture me; I can’t stand it. You must let me have my own way now, whatever happens in the future. You have come here of your own will, and go you shan’t.”

“I will stay with you if it will really comfort you,” said Leslie. “What you want more than anything else is a long, quiet sleep, and you must have it. Lie down; I will go and find your mother.”

Marjorie flopped down again on the bed, seized the pillow, clasped it in her arms, and buried her head in it.

Leslie unlocked the door and went out. On the landing a faint smell of carbolic and eau-de-Cologne greeted her. She stood for a moment hesitating. As she did so, a nurse came out of the sick-room.

“I saw you standing there, and thought perhaps you wanted something,” she said.

“Yes, I want to find Mrs. Chetwynd,” replied Leslie, in a low voice.

“She is in her room, and, I hope, asleep. Perhaps I can do something for you?”

“I wished to see her. I have a message from Marjorie.”

“Poor child, I trust she is becoming more reasonable. What does she want, may I ask?”

“She wishes me very much indeed to stay with her. She thinks she can bear to be away from Eileen if I am here.”

“Then, for Heaven’s sake, do grant her request. It is quite unnecessary to awaken poor Mrs. Chetwynd to tell her this. In the interest of my patient, I take upon myself the responsibility of giving you permission to stay. Do you need any clothes? We can send a messenger presently.”

“I must write to my mother, who will send me what I require,” replied Leslie. “Very well, I will go back to Marjorie now. You are quite certain that Mrs. Chetwynd won’t mind?”

“Mind! She will bless you.”

“Please, please, nurse, tell me before I go, how Eileen really is?”

The nurse shook her head.

“She is very ill indeed,” she answered.

“Do you mean,” said Leslie, turning pale, “that there is danger?”

“Don’t ask me,” said the nurse. “We are doing what we can for her; but in God’s hand alone are the issues of life.”

She stole back to the sick-room, and Leslie returned to Marjorie.

Marjorie was now sitting up on the bed. Her chin rested on her hands; her eyes, with a startled, strained look in them, turned slowly to Leslie when she entered the room.

“I heard you talking to nurse,” she said. “Did she—did she—tell you—anything?”

“Nothing special, dear, except that she was sure I might stay here. I could not find your mother, and nurse took the responsibility of giving me leave.”

“Oh, of course you may stay. It is not that I mean; but did she tell you anything—anything about Eileen?”

“I asked her if Eileen were in danger,” said Leslie, “and she said, ‘We are doing all we can for her; but in God’s hands are the issues of life.’”

“Oh, then it is hopeless,” said Marjorie. “I—I always thought it was.” She got off the bed as she spoke. She was trembling so excessively that she nearly fell. Leslie went up and tried to put her arm round her waist.

“Don’t touch me,” said Marjorie. “I can’t bear anyone to touch me now. It is all too true. They have been trying to keep the truth from me. Did I not read it in their faces? Even the doctors have deceived me. Leslie, oh Leslie, if you saw her now you would not know her.”

Marjorie came up close to Leslie as she spoke.

“Her face is so sunken, and, oh, so white, and her eyes so very big. You know what lovely eyes Eileen always had—so soft in expression, so full of the soul which animated all she ever did, or thought, or said; but now, Leslie, now if you could see them—they have a sort of spirit-look. She was always unearthly, and now she is going away. She is going to the better and the spiritual world; and I, oh Leslie, I can’t bear it.”

Marjorie turned away, walked to the window, rested her elbow on the sill, and looked out.

“I cannot, cannot bear it,” she repeated at intervals.

Leslie remained motionless for a few minutes; she was thinking hard.

“Of course,” she said, after a long pause, “there is only one thing to be done.”

“Only one thing—yes, I know what you mean. I am to quiet myself, to crush back my misery, my despair. Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll wash my face and hands, and make my hair tidy and go back to her again. She never loved anyone in all the world as she loved me. I am her twin, you know, and twins are so close to each other, fifty times closer than the ordinary brother and sister. I’ll go back to her, and I’ll stay so quiet that even the nurses won’t have anything to complain of. You need not remain in this house after all, Leslie, for I cannot be with you. I must return to my darling.”

“And by so doing be dreadfully selfish and injure her,” said Leslie.

“Selfish, and injure her!” repeated Marjorie.

“Yes, injure her, and take away the faint chance there may be of her life.”

“But you cannot mean that, Leslie. What possible harm can I do her? How perfectly ridiculous you are! I injure my own Eileen? Why do you speak in that way? It is impossible that I could injure her.”

“I know you will injure her if you go back. You don’t look natural, Marjorie. You must try to subdue your emotion. You are much too flushed, your eyes are too full of anxiety. The very tone of your voice is all strain. Now, Eileen ought to have no anxious person in her room. So much depends on all that sort of thing being kept out of the sickroom; and, dear,”—Leslie’s voice shook,—“I don’t know that I ought to say it, and yet I will—there is one thing to be done.”

“Speak. How mysterious you are!”

“Let us pray for her, Marjorie; let us ask God to save her. It is all in His hands. Let us ask Him to spare her life.”

Marjorie stared at Leslie, then she clutched hold of her hand, squeezed it, and said eagerly:

“Do you—do you think He will?”

“I cannot say; but we might try. He will, if it is right.”

“Then let us go straight off to a church and ask Him. I always feel as if I could pray better in a church.”

“Yes; we will go at once,” said Leslie.