"Most killed! Dear me!" sighed the lady. "And he was so young and
handsome! It will quite break his mother's heart, I suppose. But she'll
get over it. It takes a vast deal of grief to kill."

"P'raps Marse Ed'ard ain't gwine ter die," said the old nurse, checking
her sobs. "Dey does say Doctah Arthur kin 'most raise de dead."

"Well, I'm sure I hope Mr. Travilla won't die," responded Miss Deane,
"or prove to be permanently injured in any way.--Ah, Christine!" as the
latter re-entered the room: "what is all this story about a railroad
accident? Is Mr. Travilla killed?"

"No, no, he not killed," replied Christine, in her broken English. "How
bad hurt, I not know to say; but not killed."

Meantime Edward had been taken to his room, and put comfortably to bed;
while Zoe, seated in her boudoir, waited anxiously for the doctor's
report of his condition.

Ella was with her, and now and then tried to speak a comforting word,
which Zoe scarcely seemed to hear. She sat with her hands clasped in her
lap, listening intently to catch every sound from the room where her
injured husband lay. She looked pale and anxious, and occasionally a
tear would roll quickly down her cheek.

At last the door opened, and Arthur stepped softly across the room to
her side.

"Cheer up, little cousin," he said kindly. "Edward seems to be doing