When Star reached home that evening she found the whole place in a sort of hush. Christian was asleep, and on that sleep all her future hung. If she awakened with her fever gone she would be extremely weak, but with great care she might be pulled through. The doctor himself sat by her bedside, his hand on her feeble, fluttering pulse. Miss Peacock also was in the room, and the professional nurse and Jessie occupied another of the white rooms just beyond. There was intense emotion all over the house. No one thought at that moment of anyone but the girl who lay, as it were, in the shadow of death. She was loved then as she had not been loved during her days of health. Each girl, as she sat with her companion, had something to say with regard to Christian Mitford. One girl noticed how expressive were her eyes, and another said that she looked a perfect lady. Her class-mates were unanimous, too, in remarks with regard to her talents: she was so forward in all her studies; she was so imaginative; she wrote such brilliant little papers. Then her voice had such a magical quality in it; it stirred the heart; particularly when she read.

Some of the teachers who were resident in the house also stood and talked of the sick girl. "She would have done us credit," said Miss Forest. Professor French said he never heard a girl of her age read Paradise Lost as she did. He was very much impressed with her; he said she had the dramatic quality to a remarkable degree. "Well, well, it does seem sad!"

The teachers were evidently under the impression that Christian would not get well; but the girls—at least the greater number of them—could not bring themselves to believe this possible. Most of the girls had never seen death; consequently it seemed to them that to die one must be ill much longer, must suffer much more acute pain. They spoke in their ignorance, but all the same they acknowledged to a frightened fluttering at their hearts; and when one by one they stole upstairs to bed, they crept past Christian's room as though they might meet her ghost on the landing.

By and by Susan herself went up to bed. Star had not said a word to Susan since her return. Susan had not dared to question as to what had befallen Star when she went out. The act of disobedience was of no moment just then to the girls. Star was glad of this. She was so troubled and terrified about Christian that she forgot that she had been disobedient; she only regretted the time she had been absent from the house.

Susan as she went upstairs touched Maud on the shoulder.

"I can't sleep alone to-night," she said; "I should be frightened. Come and sleep with me, Maud."

Maud got up quietly. "As you like," she said.

"Oh, dear girls!" said Jessie as they were passing the refectory, "I know you are feeling it very much, all of you, but you mustn't break down; that would be the worst thing in all the world. I have got a lot of beautiful hot cocoa in jugs waiting for you. Come in and have a cup each."

"We may as well," said Susan, who seldom or never lost her appetite. She and Maud drank off a cup apiece of the nourishing, delicious drink, and Susan took up a thick piece of bread and butter. A few other girls followed her example, but the greater number shook their heads sorrowfully.

Jessie stood by the fire; her eyes were red and sunken, and her eyelids much swollen.

"Is she very, very bad?" said Susan at last.

Jessie gave her head a dismal shake.

"The doctor says she gets weaker and weaker."

"Is there no hope, then?" asked Maud, with terror in her voice.

"Oh, Maud! I don't know; I can't tell. All I know is that she can scarcely be worse and live; but the doctor does say that while there is life there is hope. That's about all."

"Oh, dear!" said Maud. She clutched Susan's hand.

They were just leaving the room when Jessie called them back.

"We are all going to pray that God may spare her," said Jessie. "There are to be prayers at midnight in the chapel. Any girl who likes to come will be welcome. Miss Peacock will be there, and she has asked Mr. Dalzell to come and pray with us."

"I don't think I'd care to go," said Susan; "that sort of thing frightens me very much."

Jessie said no more, and as Susan and Maud stole upstairs they saw other girls standing about in knots.

"Did you hear about the prayers in the chapel?" asked one.

"Yes," said Maud.

"Are you going?" asked a girl of Susan.

"No; not for all the world," said Susan. "It would terrify me into my grave."

She went upstairs, and Maud followed her. When they reached Susan's room Susan turned the key in the lock.

"Now then, thank goodness we're safe!" she said. "We'll get into bed and cover our heads up with the bedclothes, and pray that we may sleep all night. I'm horribly frightened. Aren't you, Maudie?"

"I think I'm more sorry than frightened," said Maud. "I wish we hadn't been so dreadful to her."

"Maud," said Susan, raising her voice to a pitch of agony, "you dare talk of that to-night? Why, it will drive me mad."

"But why did we do it, Susan? But for that she wouldn't be so ill."

"I don't believe you. Her illness has nothing to do with us. Oh, do let us get into bed! It is so dreadful to be up when that may be coming into the house."

"Death, you mean?" said Maud. "I never saw death."

"I did," said Susan, "when my mother died. But that was a long time ago; I can scarcely remember it."

"I don't want to see anyone who is dead," said Maud.

"Of course, you needn't see her—I mean if she does die. I wish father would send for us both. I have a good mind to write to him to-morrow. This is horrible; it makes me forget even that dreadful Wednesday. Thank goodness, Florence did get that note! But we won't worry about that now. Isn't it a comfort that the precious immaculate Star should have put her foot in it? She did, didn't she, when she went deliberately and broke Miss Peacock's command—and just when Miss Peacock was in such trouble?"

"Oh, yes," said Maud; "but I don't like thinking of people getting into trouble to-night. I feel sort of repentant. Don't you Susan?"

"Not I."

"You are hard, Susan. Do you mean to say you are not sorry that we have been so cruel to Christian?"

"I'm determined not to think of it," said Susan. "There now, I'm in bed," she continued, springing under the bedclothes as she spoke. "Let's be quick and put out the lights, and let's be quite still and go to sleep."

Meanwhile the rest of the girls, whose whole hearts were full of Christian and her serious illness, congregated in the chapel at the hour of midnight. The service was short, but very impressive. It consisted of nothing more than an earnest—most earnest—prayer from Mr. Dalzell that God would spare the young life now hovering on the brink of eternity; that He would do this for the sake of her parents, for the sake of her mistresses, and for the sake of her schoolfellows; also for her own sake.

"But perhaps," said Mr. Dalzell as he rose from his knees—"perhaps, my dear girls, it may be the will of God not to spare the life of Christian Mitford. It may be possible that her death may be just the most beautiful thing for her. I understand that the crisis will come to-night. The doctor says that she cannot continue in her present condition many hours longer. We shall know, therefore, the best or the worst in the morning; and even if it should be God's will to take that bright young spirit to Himself, you will remember, my dear girls, that there is goodness in His severity, and a Father's heart; and, beneath the terrible sorrow, a Hand of Love. Girls, it is your first experience—your very first—that so loving a Hand may have to deal the blow; but nevertheless I hope you will trust in the Heavenly Father."

Star was sobbing bitterly, as were also several of the other girls.

"Go to your rooms now," said Miss Peacock. "Your attitude to-night will be one long prayer that God's will may be done, and also that His judgment may be tempered with mercy."