With all her easy and languishing ways, Flower Dalrymple had often gone through rough times. Her life in Australia had given to her experiences both of the extreme of luxury and the extreme of roughing, but never in the course of her young life did she go through a more uncomfortable journey than that from Mrs. Cameron’s house in Bath to Sleepy Hollow. It was true that Scorpion, Mrs. Cameron, and Flower, traveled first-class; it was true also that where it was necessary for them to drive the best carriages to be procured were at their service; but, as on all and every occasion Scorpion was king of the ceremonies these arrangements did not[Pg 140] add to Flower’s comfort. Mrs. Cameron, who felt seriously angry with the young girl, addressed all her conversation to the dog, and as the dog elected to sit on Flower’s lap, and snapped and snarled whenever she moved, and as Mrs. Cameron’s words were mostly directed through the medium of Scorpion at her, her position was not an agreeable one.

“Ah-ha, my dear doggie!” said the good lady. “Somebody has come to the wrong box, has she not? Somebody thought I would take her in, and be kind to her, and pet her, and give her your cream, did she not? But no one shall have my doggie’s cream; no, that they shan’t!”

“Mrs. Cameron,” said Flower, when these particularly clever and lucid remarks had continued for nearly an hour, “may I open the window of the carriage at this side? I’m quite stifling.”

Mrs. Cameron laid a firm, fat hand upon the window cord, and bent again over the pampered Scorpion.

“And is my doggie’s asthma not to be considered for the sake of somebody who ought not to be here, who was never invited nor wished for, and is now to be returned like a bad penny to where she came from? Is my own dearest little dog to suffer for such a person’s whims? Oh, fie! oh, fie! Well, come here my Scorpion; your mistress won’t reject you.”

For Flower, in a fit of ungovernable temper, had suddenly dashed the petted form of Scorpion to the ground.

The poor angry girl now buried herself in the farthest corner of the railway carriage. From there she could hear Mrs. Cameron muttering about “somebody’s” temper, and hoping that “somebody” would get her deserts.

These remarks, uttered several times, frightened Flower so much that at last she looked up, and said, in a queer, startled voice:

“You don’t think Dr. Maybright is going to die? You can’t be so awfully wicked as to think that.”

“Oh, we are wicked, are we, Scorpion?” said Mrs. Cameron, her fat hand gently stroking down Scorpion’s smooth fur from tip to tail. “Never mind, Scorpion, my own; never mind. When the little demon of temper gets into somebody she isn’t quite accountable, is she?”

Flower wondered if any restraining power would keep her from leaping out of the window.

But even the weariest journey comes to an end at last, and twenty-four hours after she had left Sleepy Hollow, Flower, feeling the most subdued, the most abject, the most brow-beaten young person in Christendom, returned to it. Toward the end of the journey she felt impervious to Mrs. Cameron’s sly allusions, and Scorpion growled and snapped at her in vain. Her whole heart was filled with one over-powering dread. How should she find the Doctor? Was he better? Was he worse? Or had all things earthly come to an end for him; and had he reached a place where even the[Pg 141] naughtiest girl in all the world could vex and trouble him no longer?

When the hired fly drew up outside the porch, Flower suddenly remembered her first arrival—the gay “Welcome” which had waved above her head; the kind, bright young faces that had come out of the darkness to greet her; the voice of the head of the house, that voice which she was so soon to learn to love, uttering the cheeriest and heartiest words of greeting. Now, although Mrs. Cameron pulled the hall-door bell with no uncertain sound, no one, for a time at least, answered the summons, and Flower, seizing her opportunity, sprang out of the fly and rushed into the house.

The first person she met, the very first, was Polly. Polly was sitting at the foot of the stairs, all alone. She had seated herself on the bottom step. Her knees were huddled up almost to her chin. Her face was white, and bore marks of tears. She scarcely looked up when Flower ran to her.

“Polly! Polly! How glad I am you at least are not very ill.”

“Is that you, Flower?” asked Polly.

She did not seem surprised, or in any way affected.

“Yes, my leg does still ache very much. But what of that? What of anything now? He is worse! They have sent for another doctor. The doctor from London is upstairs; he’s with him. I’m waiting here to catch him when he comes down, for I must know the very worst.”

“The very worst!” echoed Flower in a feeble tone.

She tumbled down somehow on to the stair beside Polly, and the next instant her death-like face lay in Polly’s lap.

“Now, my dear, you need not be in the least frightened,” said a shrill voice in Polly’s ears. “A most troublesome young person! a most troublesome! She has just fainted; that’s all. Let me fetch a jug of cold water to pour over her.”

“Is that you, Aunt Maria?” said Polly. “Oh, yes, there was a telegram, but we forgot all about it. And is that Scorpion, and is he going to bark? But he mustn’t! Please kneel down here, Aunt Maria, and hold Flower’s head. Whatever happens, Scorpion mustn’t bark. Give him to me!”

Before Mrs. Cameron had time to utter a word or in any way to expostulate, she found herself dragged down beside Flower, Flower’s head transferred to her capacious lap, and the precious Scorpion snatched out of her arms. Polly’s firm, muscular young fingers tightly held the dog’s mouth, and in an instant Scorpion and she were out of sight. Notwithstanding al............