knew her by her
height--was at the open window, wrestling with Miss Elizabeth, who
gripped her round the knees.

Miss Mary's hand was at her own throat, which was streaked with blood.

"She's done it. She's done it too!" Miss Elizabeth panted. "Hold her!
Help me!"

"Oh, I say! Women don't cut their throats," Baxter whispered.

"My God! Has she cut her throat?" the maid cried out, and with no
warning rolled over in a faint. Baxter pushed her under the wash-basins,
and leaped to hold the gaunt woman who crowed and whistled as she
struggled toward the window. He took her by the shoulder, and she struck
out wildly:

"All right! She's only cut her hand," he said. "Wet towel quick!"

While I got that he pushed her backward. Her strength seemed almost as
great as his. I swabbed at her throat when I could, and found no mark;
then helped him to control her a little. Miss Elizabeth leaped back to
bed, wailing like a child.

"Tie up her hand somehow," said Baxter. "Don't let it drip about the
place. She"--he stepped on broken glass in his slippers, "she must have
smashed a pane."

Miss Mary lurched towards the open window again, dropped on her knees,
her head on the sill, and lay quiet, surrendering the cut hand to me.

"What did she do?" Baxter turned towards Miss Elizabeth in the far bed.

"She was going to throw herself out of the window," was the answer.
"I stopped her, and sent Arthurs for you. Oh, we can never hold up our
heads again!"

Miss Mary writhed and fought for breath. Baxter found a shawl which he
threw over her shoulders.

"Nonsense!" said he. "That isn't like Mary;" but his face worked when he
said it.

"You wouldn't believe about Aggie, John. Perhaps you will now!" said
Miss Elizabeth. "I saw her do it, and she's cut her throat too!"

"She hasn't," I said. "It's only her hand."

Miss Mary suddenly broke from us with an indescribable grunt, flew,
rather than ran, to her sister's bed, and there shook her as one furious
schoolgirl would shake another.

"No such thing," she croaked. "How dare you think so, you wicked little
fool?"

"Get into bed, Mary," said Baxter. "You'll catch a chill."

She obeyed, but sat up with the grey shawl round her lean shoulders,
glaring at her sister. "I'm better now," she panted. "Arthurs let me
sit out too long. Where's Arthurs? The kettle."

"Never mind Arthurs," said Baxter. "You get the kettle." I hastened to
bring it from the side table. "Now, Mary, as God