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‘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 harshly; ‘there, I can’t speak of this just yet: go, both of you.’

There was little work done at evening preparation that night; the whole school was buzzing with curiosity and speculation, as we heard doors opening and shutting around, and the wheels of the doctor’s gig as it rolled up the chestnut avenue.

I sat with my hands shielding my eyes and ears, engaged to all appearance with the books before me, while my restless thoughts were employed in making earnest resolutions for the future.

At last I saw my cowardice in its true light, and felt impatient to tell Marjory that I did so, to prove to her that I had really reformed; but when would an opportunity come? I might not see her again for days, perhaps not at all till after the holidays; but I would not let myself dwell upon such a contingency as that, and, to banish it, tried to picture what Marjory would say, and how she would look, when I was allowed to see her again.

After evening prayers, read by one of the assistant-masters, for the Doctor did not appear again, we were enjoined to go up to our bedrooms with as little noise as possible, and we had been in bed some time before Sutcliffe, the old butler, came up as usual to put out the lights.

On this occasion he was assailed by a fire of eager whispers from every door: ‘Sutcliffe, hi! old Sutty, how is she?’ but he did not seem to hear, until a cry louder than the rest brought him to our room.

‘For God’s sake, gentlemen, don’t!’ he said, in a hoarse whisper, as he turned out the light; ‘they’ll hear you downstairs.’

‘But how is she? do you know–better?’

‘Ay,’ he said, ‘she’s better. She’ll be over her trouble soon, will Miss Marjory!’