A very malignant form of scarlet-fever had showed itself already in the
village, and the Rector's children were some of the first victims. To
say that Miss Fleet was shocked when she received Mrs Hilchester's note
would but lightly explain the state of that good woman's feelings. She
was so horrified that she forgot to scold Phyllis for her act, as she
termed it, of disobedience; on the contrary, she flew to the little girl
and clasped her in her arms, and said in a broken whisper:
"We must pray for your little sick friends. Let us kneel down here at
once and pray."
"Yes," answered Phyllis in some surprise.
Miss Fleet fell on her knees, and Phyllis clasped her governess's hand
and looked up into her face.
What Miss Fleet said aloud was quite comprehensible to Phyllis and
soothed her very much. She asked God that the sick children might
recover, and she spoke of them with affection and again called them
Phyllis's friends. But what she did not say aloud was perhaps the most
earnest part of her prayer, for in that she asked God to forgive her for
not being as kind and sympathetic to Phyllis and to the Rectory children
as she might have been, and she implored of God most earnestly the
precious, most precious life of the only child.
That day a telegram reached Squire Harringay in Edinburgh. It was from
the governess this time, and its purport was so grave that he decided to
return home that day. He turned to the friend with whom he was
transacting business and said:
"I have just had rather a nasty shock. You know, of course, that I have
only one child, my little Phyllis, the apple of my eye, as you may well
understand. Well, some children, friends of hers, have contracted a
very bad sort of scarlet-fever, and she has been exposed this morning to
direct infection. I hope that God will be merciful, and that the child
may have escaped. But I am best at home, Lawson, and will leave here by
the next train."
Early the next morning Phyllis was made happy by the arrival of her
father. He could not pet her too much, nor look at her too often, nor
make enough fuss about her. Phyllis wondered why every one was now so
kind, and why the children of the Rectory were spoken of as her dear
little friends, not only by Nurse and Miss Fleet, but by every one in
the house.
"But they were scarcely my friends. I mean--I mean," said Phyllis as
she sat on her father's knee that evening--"I mean that I love them most
awfully, but Fleetie did not wish me to love them. She would not have
called them my friends; she did not until they got ill."
"When they recover you shall see plenty of them," said Mr Harringay;
"and now, my darling, let us talk of something else."
But Phyllis was not happy unless she was allowed to talk of the Rectory
children. She told her father everything--all about that picnic tea in
the attics, and poor Rosie's longing for the rocking-horse and the
baby-house.
"Could not they be sent to her--couldn't they, Father? She would be so
glad to have them; even if she was ill and her throat was sore, she
could look at the rocking-horse and perhaps play with the baby-house."
"No, no," said the Squire. "No, no; we will keep them until she is
well. But I will tell you what, Phyllis; we will have that baby-house
down to-morrow, and you shall furnish it in the nicest and most
fashionable style. You and Miss Fleet shall go out in the afternoon and
buy new furniture for the entire house."
"Yes, what a lovely idea!" said Phyllis, and the thought cheered her up.
But nevertheless she was very sad during the next few days. Those who
loved her watched her with anxiety.
The children at the Rectory were very ill, and little Rosie especially
was the one nigh unto death. There came a day when the doctor feared
that little Rosie might not recover. It was Rose who had kissed Phyllis
so passionately; it was Rosie who, if any one, had given the little girl
the dreaded infection. Mr Harringay had a curious feeling that
Phyllis's life hung on the life of Rosie. He spent the entire day going
between the Hall and the Rectory to make inquiries.
"Very ill. Very bad. Quite unconscious. Scarcely any hope. May last
till the morning; not sure."
Such were the varied bulletins. Mr Harringay did not dare to tell
Phyllis how bad her little friend was. Ralph and Susie were already out
of danger; it was Rose whose life hung in the balance. Early the next
morning the Squire got up and went across the fields to the Rectory. He
could scarcely bring himself to raise his eyes to see if the blinds were
all down or not. He walked straight up to the door. There the Rector
himself greeted him.
"Well, well?" said the Squire. "Speak, my dear friend; I can scarcely
explain what I feel for you."
The Rector grasped his hand.
"Better news," he said; "she has slept for the last three or four hours;
indeed, she is sleeping still. Both the doctor and nurse think that she
may awake out of danger."
"Thank God!" said the Squire.
He went back home. Although he had not entered the house, he would not
meet Phyllis until he had completely changed his dress. He came down to
breakfast. If Phyllis had taken the infection she ought to show some
symptoms that morning. But Phyllis's little fresh face looked as bonny
and bright as ever, and her eyes were as clear and her appetite as keen.
In a remarkable way the Squire began to feel the load which had rested
so heavily on his heart begin to lift.
"Phyllis," he said, "Rosie has been very ill, but I think she will get
better."
"Will God make her quite well if we ask Him?" said Phyllis to her
father.
"Do ask Him, my child; do," said the Squire.
Phyllis rushed out of the room. She came back presently and sat down in
a contented way to her breakfast. She ate with appetite.
"Are you not anxious, Phyllis?" asked her father.
"Not now," she said in a cheerful tone.
"I spoke to God, you know, and it is all right."
"Bless the child," said the Squire.
Late that day the news came that Rosie was out of danger.
"Then Phyllis was right," said the Squire. He caught his little
daughter to his heart, and kissed her many, many times.
After all Phyllis did escape, and the three children at the Rectory got
well. Ned did not sicken at all with the dreaded fever. When they were
well enough the Squire himself insisted on sending them to the seaside.
There they got strong and brown and bonny, and came back with as gay
spirits and as fond of Phyllis as ever. It was a very happy day when
the Rectory children and Phyllis met once more in the old attic. The
Squire was in their midst this time, and there was no naughtiness
anywhere about, and Phyllis had found playmates at last.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.