ced criticised his actions, did he realise that again was he
building a palace of Eros, and again its foundation was nothing but
sand!

One evening, in the midst of his mental accusations, came a note:--

Please come soon. Phoebe seems very ill.--P. C.

He hailed a hansom and was off in a moment.

The child was asleep in her crib, and Mrs Cameron watched uneasily by
her side. The flushed face, hurrying pulse, the dry skin, and spasmodic
breathing showed signs of fever. There were cases of diphtheria about,
and he looked grave. But he decided to cause no unnecessary anxiety, and
promised to return later. Then there was no concealing it; great care,
he said, must be exercised, as the child was young and not over-strong.
He put his opinion in that form to avoid being an alarmist, though the
symptoms of the disease were unfavourable, and he dreaded the worst. But
his own hope was so great that it tempered his report with consolation,
for he had not the heart to warn Phoebe's mother of his fears.

After hours of anxious watching he could not but own to himself that no
progress was made, and that the crisis must be awaited with dread.
Should he tell her? Dared he? In front of him lay the probably dying
little creature that was first in her life--before himself, before
anything. Should she perish, there would be no barrier in the world
between them; Mrs Cameron would have no duty but to herself!

A warm flush underlay his features--not the flush of pride or of
satisfaction; it was the dye of shame for thoughts which placed himself
and his egoistic desires before the life of the innocent being whose
fate seemed to lie in his hands. It lasted not a moment, for he rose and
left the house with a face quite ashen grey, whence all the light and
fire of youth had faded. He was not long absent, for he had secured a
passing hansom and paid a doubled fare for doubled speed.

He found Mrs Cameron alone with the child, while the nurse, worn out and
weary, dozed in an adjacent room. Little Phoebe, who, earlier in the
day, had been restless to a frightful degree, flinging about her waxen,
chubby arms distractedly in the effort to gain breath, now lay almost
motionless. Her mother, little experienced in any phase of illness,
imagined that some slight improvement had taken place, but Ralph Danby
knew better. The dull bluish pallor of the hitherto rosy skin; the rapid
pulsation and agonised breathing; the feeble, sad croak that could