id; 'I will go: I'll say
what you want me to say!'

But it was too late. I saw her for just a second at the door, my
impetuous, generous little Marjory, as she flung back her pretty hair in
a certain spirited way she had, and nodded to me encouragingly.

And then--I can hardly think of it calmly even now--there came a sharp
scream, and the sound of a fall, and, after that, silence.

Sick with fear, I rushed to the head of the steps, and looked down into
the brown gloom.

'Keep where you are for a minute!' I heard Ormsby cry out. 'It's all
right--she's not hurt; now you can come down.'

I was down in another instant, at the foot of the stairs, where, in a
patch of faint light that fell from the door above, lay Marjory, with
Ormsby bending over her insensible form.

'She's dead!' I cried in my terror, as I saw her white face.

'I tell you she's all right,' said he, impatiently; 'there's nothing to
make a fuss about. She slipped coming down and cut her forehead--that's
all.'

'Marjory, speak to me--don't look like that; tell me you're not much
hurt!' I implored her; but she only moaned a little, and her eyes
remained fast shut.

'It's no use worrying her now, you know,' said Ormsby, more gently.
'Just help me to get her round to the kitchen door, and tell somebody.'

We carried her there between us, and, amidst a scene of terrible
confusion and distress, Marjory, still insensible, was carried into the
library, and a man sent off in hot haste for the surgeon.

A little later Ormsby and I were sent for to the study, where Dr.
Dering, whose face was white and drawn as I had never seen it before,
questioned us closely as to our knowledge of the accident.

Ormsby could only say that he was out in the playground, when he saw
somebody descending the steps, and heard a fall, after which he ran up
and found Marjory.

'I sent her into the schoolroom to bring my paper-knife,' said the
Doctor; 'if I had but gone myself--! But why should she have gone
outside on a frosty night like this?'

'Oh, Dr. Dering!' I broke out, 'I'm afraid--I'm afraid she went for me!'

I saw Ormsby's face as I spoke, and there was a look upon it which made
me pity him.

'And you sent my poor child out on your errand, Cameron! Could you not
have done it yourself?'

'I wish I had!' I exclaimed; 'oh, I wish I had! I tried to stop her,
and then--and then it was too late. Please tell me, sir, is she badly
hurt?'

'How can I tell?' he said h