Chrissie was gone in an instant. Ferdy couldn't be dead, she thought, if mamma wanted brandy for him. But when the mother, nerved by love, flew along the drive to the spot where her husband and the coachman were still bending over what still was, or had been, her Ferdy, she could scarcely keep back a scream of anguish. For a moment she was sure that Chrissie's first words were true--he was killed.
"Walter, Walter, tell me quick," she gasped. "Is he--is he alive?"
Mr. Ross looked up, his own face so deadly pale, his lips so drawn and quivering, that a rush of pity for _him_ came over her.
"I--I don't know. I can't tell. What do you--think, Merton?" he said, in a strange dazed voice. "He has not moved, but we thought he was breathing at first."
The coachman lifted his usually ruddy face; it seemed all streaked, red and white in patches.
"I can feel his heart, sir; I feel fairly sure I can feel his heart. If we could get a drop or two of brandy down his throat, and--yes, I think I can slip my arm under his head. There's Burt coming with some water."
"And brandy," said Mrs. Ross. "Here, give it me--a spoon--yes, that's right. And, Walter, have you sent for the doctor?"
Mr. Ross passed his hand over his forehead, as if trying to collect himself.
"I will send Larkins now," he said, "on the pony--that will be the quickest," though a sort of shudder passed over him as he spoke of the innocent cause of this misery. "Larkins, go at once for Mr. Stern; you know the shortest way," for there was no doctor within a mile or two of Evercombe village, and Mr. Ross raised himself to give exact directions to the young groom.
When he turned again they had succeeded in getting a spoonful of brandy and water between Ferdy's closed lips--then another; then poor old Merton looked up with a gleam of hope in his eyes.
"He's coming to, sir--ma'am--I do believe," he said.
He was right. A quiver ran through the little frame, then came the sound of a deep sigh, and Ferdy's eyes opened slowly. They opened and--it was like Ferdy--the first sign he gave of returning consciousness was a smile--a very sweet smile.
"Papa, mamma," he whispered, "is it time to get up? Is it--my birthday?"
That was too much for his mother. The tears she had been keeping back rushed to her eyes, but they were partly tears of joy. Her boy was alive; at worst he was not killed, and perhaps, oh _perhaps_, he was not badly hurt.