In the days that followed there was fierce battle made for the child's life, and the rival claimants fought side by side. For once all animosities were laid aside, all bitterness forgotten. They were making common cause now against man's implacable foe, and nothing draws us together like a community of interests or fears. Physicians, nurses, servants,—all gave their best aid—there is something about a fight with death that instantly fills the ranks—but it was upon these two that the stress fell. And they shared it.

By one of those unaccountable fancies of a sick person, Philip had taken a dislike to the nurse, and would let her do nothing for him. The other one had been sent back the morning after she came.

"Do you think we had better change?" asked Mr. De Jarnette of the doctor. "Still, the nurse seems faithful and competent. It is a most unfortunate notion he has taken."

"Children have very poor judgment," said Dr. Anderson, satirically. He knew how matters stood with the De Jarnettes and was not on the side of the testamentary guardian. "It is not unusual for them to prefer the most inexperienced mother to a competent nurse. No. Let it alone. It will work itself out."

It worked itself out by their taking almost entire charge of him themselves. The nurse was always there, it is true, to direct, to warn, to prepare draughts and appliances, but it was they who must administer, for Philip would have it so.

"I want Unker Wichard to hold me," he said one day.

"Mama will hold you, darling," Margaret answered with quick jealousy.

"I want Unker Wichard to hold me." And she looked on while Richard settled himself in the big chair and took the child in his arms. She turned away as she saw Philip's look of content.

"It is because Mr. De Jarnette is stronger," the nurse said in a low tone, seeing Margaret's look. "Children love a man's strength. It rests them."

"I want mama to hold my hand," said Philip from the depths of his uncle's arms. And Margaret taking a stool sat close beside the big chair and held the little feverish hand. He dropped asleep at last, and fearing to wake him they sat thus for a long time—a long, long time it seemed to Margaret. But she could not get her hand away without his clutching it and murmuring, "I want mama, Unker Wichard."

Sometimes when the child was restless Richard would take him in his arms and walk with him up and down, up and down, the length of the great chamber. He never seemed to grow weary, Margaret noticed, and he was as gentle in his touch as a woman. Perhaps there was something, as the nurse had said, in the combination of strength and gentleness to quiet overwrought nerves. She began to have a comprehension of a child's need of something to rest upon. She had never supposed that Richard De Jarnette could be gentle. And then, without any special reason, her thoughts drifted back to that trying time when she first found out that she was a deserted wife.... No—she could not say that he had not been gentle then. But since—What a strange man he was! So full of inconsistencies. One day when she had been holding Philip and started to get up with him in her arms, he—this hard, cold man who had not spoken two words to her that day—stopped her with a word, and before she could resist, had taken the child from her, saying almost sternly, "Don't ever do that. No woman is strong enough to get up with a child of his size in her arms." It struck her as a very strange thing that he should thus look out for her—should even think of such a trifling thing. But she gave Philip up to him without comment.

During those days and nights of anxiety they lived in and for the boy. Meals came and went and they ate them together, sometimes in silence, oftener talking of him. Days dawned to be filled with work for him; then darkness fell and covered the earth with its pall and their hearts with its terrors. In the morning they said "Would God it were night"; and in the night, "Would God it were morning."

Of the outer world they heard only through the doctor who brought them daily tidings and messages of encouragement from Mrs. Pennybacker. Rosalie was slowly failing. It did not seem possible for her to leave her now, unless— The sentence was never finished.

Mr. De Jarnette had not been to town since the day he brought Margaret out. He had voluntarily chosen to go into quarantine with her in the sick-room. She had protested at first, but without avail, and later she had come to depend upon him and was glad to have him there. It seemed to divide the responsibility.

"He don't seem to take no intrus in nothin' but that chile," Mammy Cely said one day. "He cert'ny is wropped up in him. And no wonder. Philip's the onlies' one of his fambly left." And for once Margaret forgot to be angry that Philip was thus aligned with the De Jarnettes instead of the Varnums.

Everything but Philip was thrust into the background now.

"I have good news for you, Mrs. De Jarnette," said the doctor one morning, as he put his thermometer into the child's mouth and waited. Philip was at his worst that day and he wanted to get her thoughts away from him for a few moments at least and leave her with something to think about. "Your bill has passed the Senate."

"Has it?" she answered indifferently. Then, with an impatience that could hardly wait, "How is it, doctor? Is it any lower?"

"I'll wager she has forgotten already what I said to her," the doctor communed with himself. "Women are all alike. They can manage the affairs of the nation or the universe until their children get sick, and then—it's all up! Well, I guess that's the way the Lord meant 'em to be."

One afternoon the doctor called the nurse into the adjoining room and talked with her in low tones. When he came back he said cheerfully, "I believe I will stay at Elmhurst to-night, Mrs. De Jarnette. I think he is going to be better, but we will know by midnight."

Margaret gripped the side of the bed. The doctor does not usually stay when the patient is better.

Suspense was in the air after that. Word was passed to the cabin that the crisis had come, and Uncle Tobe and his wife and Mammy Cely were having a prayer-meeting there.

At nine o'clock Philip was sleeping quietly and the doctor who had been up the night before went to bed. "Call me if there is any change," he said to the nurse, "and at twelve whether there is or not."

He advised Margaret to do the same, but she shook her head.

"Mr. De Jarnette," the nurse said in a low tone. "Hadn't you better lie down now. You may be needed later."

"No," he said, briefly.

"It really isn't necessary," said Margaret.

"I prefer to stay."

She did not combat it. In her heart she was glad to have him there.

Through the long hours they sat thus, one on each side of Philip's bed. The nurse watching them could not but think how strange it all was.

Midnight and the doctor brought them hope.

"He is doing finely, nurse,—I couldn't ask anything better." Then to Margaret, who stood beside him, he said feelingly, ignoring Mr. De Jarnette, "God is more merciful than man, my child. He has given you back your—why, my dear!"—for Margaret was clinging to him weak and nerveless, her head on his fatherly shoulder—"there! there!—here, nurse, look after her. She is all unstrung."

"It is sleep she needs," the nurse said, "and no wonder." And Margaret allowed herself to be led away.

"It beats everything the way these women do," grumbled the doctor. "You think they are wrought-iron till the danger is past, and then you find they are a bundle of nerves after all. I stumbled over that old negro woman of yours at the door—waiting for news, I suppose."

Mr. De Jarnette went to the door.

"Name er God, Marse Richard, how is he? I didn't dast to speak when I saw 'em takin' Miss Margaret off."

"Go to bed," said Richard, kindly. "The danger is past, the doctor says."

"We may as well go to bed and leave him to the nurse now," said the doctor, just behind him.

"I shall stay for awhile. Good-night, doctor."

When Margaret woke from that sleep of exhaustion the first faint streaks of daylight were in the sky. She had thrown herself on the bed, dressed as she was, and slept for hours. She started up and hurried to Philip's room. A wax taper was burning low. The nurse was not in sight and at first she thought the child was alone. She stepped quickly to the bed. Then as her eyes became accustomed to the semi-gloom she saw a figure in the big arm-chair.

"How is he? I—I must have slept a long time."

"He has hardly stirred."

"Poor little lamb! He was worn out too. Where is the nurse?"

"I sent her to bed. There was no use in both of us sitting up, and she was tired out."

"And you have sat here alone all night? and not even been able to read to keep yourself awake."

"I have found my thoughts quite sufficient," he said.