CHAPTER VII.

IN THE HOSPITAL.

IT was many hours before Phil regained consciousness.

He opened his eyes to find himself occupying a bed in a hospital ward. How came he there? He wondered—and O! What a fearful pain quivered in his right shoulder and down his back! By his bedside stood a gentleman who met his questioning glance with a smile, and said gently:

"You are in safe hands, Phil. I think you have heard my name before. I am Dr. Bethune, Miss Crawford's friend."

"What is the matter with me? Who brought me here?" Phil asked faintly.

"Don't you remember? Your house caught fire, and in saving your sister, you got badly burnt."

Yes, Phil remembered now. The hot blood rushed to his face, and then receded, leaving him deadly pale.

"Don't talk, my boy," said Dr. Bethune. "I will explain it to you, and then you must lie still, and try to go to sleep. Millie is well and uninjured. You saved her life. Had it not been for your heroism and noble self-forgetfulness, she must have perished in the fire. Unfortunately a burning piece of wood fell upon your shoulder before you reached the bottom of the stairs. I fear you will have a good deal of pain to bear, but we are clever people here, and mean to pull you through if such a thing be possible."

"I don't understand," said Phil feebly and making long pauses between each sentence, "I don't understand how Millie came to be at home. I thought she had gone away with Miss Crawford. I took her to the station myself."

"And they would have gone, Phil, but at the last minute it was found impossible for one of the children, a little crippled boy, to leave London until the following day. He could not travel alone, and Miss Crawford thought it better to wait for him. So Millie went home again."

Phil closed his eyes. His throbbing head would not let him think, and the pain in his back made him sick and faint. He tried to move, but with a low moan of agony, he gave up the attempt, and lay with a white face and knitted brow, trying to bear his suffering as best he might.

"Poor fellow!" said Dr. Bethune compassionately. Then he gave him a draught that seemed to have the effect of deadening his pain, for presently he fell asleep.

Days passed, and Phil grew no better. Millie came to visit him as soon as she was allowed. He was happier after he had seen her; for she looked no worse than usual—a little paler perhaps, that was all. The only drop of comfort in Phil's bitter cup of sorrow was that he had saved his sister; he had risked his life for hers. He recollected some sweet words that he used to hear his mother read on Sunday evenings at Chormouth:

"'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'"

He was still greatly perplexed as to how Millie could possibly have been in the house on the fatal night of the fire, unknown to him, and begged her to explain the mystery.

She told him, as Dr. Bethune had already done, that as one of their party was not forthcoming, Miss Crawford had considered it wiser for all to postpone the journey till the following day. She then went on to say that she returned to Swift Street feeling utterly worn out, and with a severe headache that increased as the evening advanced. Her uncle came in about nine o'clock, but by that time she was so unwell that, after putting the supper on the table, she was obliged to go to her room and lie down.

Very soon she fell into a sound sleep—so sound a sleep, indeed, that even the crash of the drawing-box as it tumbled to the floor did not disturb her. Poor child! She was accustomed to noises all day and all night. She awoke to find herself half suffocated with smoke; and great was her horror, on opening the door, to see their sitting-room in flames. She endeavoured to escape down the staircase, but fear paralysed her limbs, and she sank senseless to the floor.

Phil knew what followed.

She supposed her uncle awoke on the first alarm of fire, and in the confusion and terror of the moment completely forgot her. But, Millie said, he had scarcely mentioned the awful occurrences of that night, and she dared not break upon his reserve, and question him.

Phil rarely spoke to the doctors and nurses, except to thank them for their kindness and attention. To Dr. Bethune, however, he sometimes opened his heart.

"Will you tell me the truth, Sir?" he said one day, as Dr. Bethune stood by his bedside. "Will you tell me if there is any hope for me?"

"I can hardly say at present, Phil," the doctor replied. "Yours is a very bad case, and we do not see the improvement that we expected; but there is no immediate danger. When there is, you shall know, I promise you. All that human skill can do for you will be done, rest assured of that."

For a few minutes Phil neither moved nor spoke. Then he said:

"I should like to see Miss Crawford, Sir. I have something to tell her in case I should die. Do you think she will come?"

"I am sure she will. You shall see her to-morrow."

Phil smiled gratefully.

The doctor was as good as his word. He carried Phil's message that same evening to Miss Crawford, and early on the following day she was at the boy's bedside. To his amazement she took his scorched, blistered hand in hers, and reverently kissed it.

Phil pulled it hastily away.

"Don't do that, Miss Crawford," he said. "You don't know what you are doing."

"Yes, I do," she answered, with tears in her eyes, "for I know you to be such a brave, fearless boy, that I am proud to own you as my friend."

A sob rose in Phil's throat.

"Miss Crawford, if you don't want me to die of shame, don't speak so," he said humbly. "It is because you don't know that you say so. I asked to see you because I could not die with the dreadful load there is upon my conscience. I tried to tell Dr. Bethune, but I couldn't get out the words. O Miss Crawford, you will hate me so when you hear it."

"Hush, my boy! You must talk quietly if you wish to keep me here," she said very soothingly. "I promised Dr. Bethune that I would not let you get excited. You are not quite yourself, or you would not say such things."

Phil strove to subdue his agitation.

"Lean down closer, Miss Crawford," he said, after a few minutes, "I don't want anybody but you to hear. There, let your hand stay under mine, so," and Phil laid his on the top of hers, "and when you begin to hate me, draw it away; but let me keep it till you do begin to hate me, won't you?"

In broken sentences, and with many interruptions, Phil got through his story. He need not have feared: Miss Crawford did not withdraw her hand; only when he arrived at the very saddest part of all, and he knew that she could guess the end, her other hand came to keep the first one company. With so gentle a touch did she place it upon Phil's that it did not hurt him in the least, while in a voice of infinite pity, and with the tears running down her cheeks, she said:

"Poor boy, poor boy! And you went through all that!"

It was over at last. Phil felt inexpressibly relieved that he had unburdened his mind, and confessed his sin.

"Phil," said Miss Crawford presently, "I cannot help thinking how good God has been to you. Have you thanked Him?"

"Yes, indeed, I have," he replied. "But sometimes I wish that after I had saved Millie, He had let me die. Nobody wants me here. I am no good to anybody."

"Don't talk so, dear boy. What, would you have Millie left alone in the world?"

"No, that is all I care to live for," he answered sorrowfully; "for though I have troubled her so, I know it would break her heart to lose me. Miss Crawford," he added earnestly, "if I die, you'll never forget Millie, will you?"

"I promise you I will not. I saw her yesterday, and she gave me such good news of your uncle. He has been perfectly sober ever since the night of the fire."

"I am glad of that for his own and Millie's sake," Phil replied. "I get anxious about her at night, and wonder what she is doing." Then after a pause he continued, "I should like them to know that I did it; you know what I mean. Will you tell them, please?"

"I will, but you must let me choose my own time for doing so. Now, Phil, will you make me a promise in return for mine?"

"I will do anything you ask me, Miss Crawford," he replied eagerly, delighted at the thought of doing a service for one who had done so much for him.

"Then read a chapter from this book every night and every morning," she said as she took from her bag a beautiful little Bible. "See," she continued, opening it at the fly leaf, "I have written your name here, and beneath, a favourite text of mine—'We love Him, because He first loved us.' Phil, I want you to know more about those things that are so dear to Millie and me, and this will teach you, if you will read it prayerfully. God has been very good to you in saving your life," she went on earnestly. "It was wonderful that you escaped, I am told. You ought to be very grateful to Him, Phil, and not only full of gratitude, but full of love to Him. O! If you once felt how much He loved you, you could not help giving back your love in return."

"I will try, Miss Crawford, and you must pray for me," he said humbly.

Very willingly did she promise that she would. Then after a little further conversation she took her leave, saying she would come again soon.

As days and weeks rolled on, Phil became gradually stronger and better, but still the slightest movement of his back was torture to him, and he could not even turn in his bed without assistance. He became at length weary and sick with hope deferred.

"Doctor, shall I never walk again?" he said one day to Dr. Bethune, in a half-tired, half-impatient voice.

Receiving no answer, he supposed his question had not been heard, but as Dr. Bethune at that moment turned hastily away to another patient, he had no chance of repeating it.

When Miss Crawford came that afternoon accompanied by Millie, he made the same inquiry of her. But she hesitated, and Millie's lips quivered as her eyes met her brother's.

"O! Do tell me," he said anxiously. "Surely I shall walk again some day!"

Then very gently Miss Crawford told him his spine had been so injured by the fall of the burning wood that the doctors feared he would never recover from the effects, though in time he might perhaps walk with the help of crutches.

"What! Lie still all my life long?" he moaned when she had finished. "Never walk nor run again! O! I can't bear it. I'd rather die."

A sob from Millie broke the silence that ensued.

"O my darling brother," she said, as she knelt by his bedside, "I will be legs, and feet, and arms, and everything to you, if you'll only let me. Uncle knows about it, and he is so sorry for you. He would have been to see you, only he's afraid that the sight of him would distress you. And he says, Phil, that he'll never touch that dreadful drink again as long as he lives, and that you shall never want for a home as long as he has health and strength to work for you. And he means it, dear. He is so good and kind now."

All this Millie sobbed out at intervals, but Phil made no reply.

"Don't think it unkind of me," he said presently, "but I'd rather be alone for a while. I can't talk about it yet."

So they said good-bye to him, and Miss Crawford did what she had never done before. She put back the thick black hair from his forehead, bent down, and as she kissed him, he heard her whisper, "'Nevertheless not my will, but Thine, be done.'"

All through that night, a storm of conflicting emotions raged in poor Phil's heart. He said to himself that he could not, would not live to endure so cruel a fate. What, never walk, nor run, nor jump again? Never draw himself up to his full height, and feel that delicious sensation of strength and power tingling through every vein in his body? Be a helpless cripple all his life long—a thing as useless as a log of wood? Be compelled to lie perfectly still? Be at the entire mercy of others, utterly dependent upon them for the gratification of every wish, the supply of every want? No, it was too hard a punishment for such a sin as his had been. What was it but a few passionate words, a small act of revenge, committed under great provocation? How was he to know that such dire results would be the consequence? They had not been his desire. Besides, had he not acknowledged and repented of his sin? Had he not gone almost beyond human power to make atonement? O it was cruel! It was most unjust!

But lately Phil had learnt something of his Saviour's love, and with the dawn of morning a wondrous calm fell upon his troubled mind. It was no punishment after all, perhaps. It might be that God had sent this hard and bitter trial to prove him. Then, God helping him, he would stand the test and "suffer and be strong." Again he seemed to hear the sweet, low words:

"'Nevertheless not my will, but Thine, be done.'"

It must have been an angel's voice, Phil thought, for there was no Miss Crawford there to whisper lovingly to him. So, with a peaceful smile upon his face, he fell asleep, and the first beam of the rising sun, stealing across his pillow, made a halo of glory about his head.

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