When Philippa Roberts had fled
out into the night for help, her
father and old Hannah were too alarmed
to notice her absence. They went hurrying
back and forth with this remedy
and that. Again and again they were
ready to give up; once Henry Roberts
said, "He is gone!" and once Hannah
began to cry, and said, "Poor lad,
poor boy!" Yet each made one more
effort, their shadows looming gigantic
against the walls or stretching
across the ceiling, bending and sinking
as they knelt beside the poor young
man, who by that time was beyond
speech. So the struggle went on. But
little by little life began to gain. John
Fenn's eyes opened. Then he smiled.
Then he said something-they could
not hear what.

"Bless the Lord!" said Henry Roberts.

"He's asking for Philly," said old
Hannah. By the time the doctor and
Philippa reached the house the shadow
of death had lifted.

"It must have been poison," Mr.
Roberts told the doctor. "When he