"But Frank only came down yesterday."

"Frank was knocked down and predisposed by the treatment he met with, poor boy. They say he drank quarts of iced things at the dinner and ball, and ate nothing. This may be only the effect of the shock, but his head is burning, and there is a disposition to wander. However, he has had his coup de grace, and that may account for it. It is Cecil."

"Cecil!"

"Cecil, poor child. She has been constantly in that pestiferous place. All Worth would say was that she must be kept quiet and cool, but he has sent the same draughts for all three. I saw, for Terry's came here. I fancy Worth spoke out plainly to that maid of Cecil's, Grindstone; but she only looks bitter at me, says she can attend to her mistress, and has kept me out of the room all day.

But I will go in to-night before I go to bed," added Raymond, energetically. "You are ready to laugh at me, Julius. No one has meddled between you and Rosamond."

"Thank God, no!" cried Julius.

"Friend abroad, or you may leave out the r," said Raymond, "maid at home. What chance have I ever had?"

"I'll tell you what I should do, Raymond," said Julius, "turn out the maid, keep the field, nurse her myself."

"Yes," said Raymond, "that's all very well if--if you haven't got the fever yourself. There, you need say nothing about it, nobody would be of any use to me to-night, and it may be only that I am dead beat."

But there was something about his eyes and his heavy breath which confirmed his words, and Julius could only say, "My dear Raymond!"

"It serves us right, does not it?" said his brother, smiling. "I only wish it had not fixed on the one person who tried to do good."

"If I could only stay with you; but I must tell Rosamond first."

"No, indeed. I want no one to-night, no one; after that you'll look after my mother, that's the great thing." He spoke steadily, but his hand trembled so that he could not light his candle, and Julius was obliged to do it, saying wistfully, "I'll come up the first thing in the morning and see how you are."

"Do, and if there is need, you will tell my mother. A night's rest may set me right, but I have not felt well these three or four days-- I shall be in my own old room."

He leant heavily on the balusters, but would not take his brother's arm. He passed into his dressing-room, and thus to the open door of the room where he heard his wife's voice; and as Mrs. Grindstone came forward to warn him off, he said, "She is awake."

"Yes, sir; but she must not be excited."

"Raymond!"

"How are you now?" he asked, coming up to the bed.

"Oh! it is very hot and heavy," said Cecil wearily, putting her hand into his; "I'm aching all over."

"Poor child!" he said softly.

She lifted her eyes to his face. "I wanted to tell you all day,"

she said. "Didn't you come to the door?"

"Many times, my dear."

"And now! oh dear! I don't recollect. Don't go, please."

He sat down by her; she held his hand and dozed again.

"You had best leave her now, sir," said the maid; "she will only go on in this way, and I can tend her."

He would have given a great deal to have been sure that he could hold up his head ten minutes longer and to venture to send the woman away. Cecil muttered "Stay," and he sat on till her sleep seemed deeper, and he felt as if a few moments more might disable him from crossing the room, but his first movement again made her say "Don't."

"Mr. Poynsett cannot stay, ma'am," said Grindstone, in a persuasive tone. "He is very tired, and not well, and you would not wish to keep him."

"Give me a kiss," she said, like a tired child. It was not like the shy embrace with which they had sometimes met and parted, but he knew he must not rouse her, and only said very low, "Good night, my poor dear; God bless you, and grant us a happy meeting, whenever it is."

Tears were flowing down his cheeks when Julius presently came to him again, and only left him when settled for the night.

CHAPTER, XXVII The Water Lane Fever

The Water Lane Fever. People called it so, as blinking its real name, but it was not the less true that it was a very pestilence in the lower parts of Wil'sbro'; and was prostrating its victims far and wide among the gentry who had resorted to the town-hall within the last few weeks.

Cases had long been smouldering among the poor and the workmen employed, and several of these were terminating fatally just as the outbreak was becoming decisive.

On Monday morning Julius returned from visits to his brothers to find a piteous note from Mrs. Fuller entreating him to undertake two funerals. Her husband had broken down on Sunday morning and was very ill, and Mr. Driver had merely read the services and then joined his pupils, whom he had sent away to the sea-side. He had never been responsible for pastoral care, and in justice to them could not undertake it now. "Those streets are in a dreadful state," wrote the poor lady, "several people dying; and there is such a panic in the neighbourhood that we know not where to turn for help. If you could fix an hour we would let the people know. The doctor insists on the funerals being immediate."

Julius was standing in the porch reading this letter, and thinking what hour he could best spare from nearer claims, when he heard the gate swing and beheld his junior curate with a very subdued and sobered face, asking, "Is it true?"

"That the fever is here? Yes, it is."

"And very bad?"

"Poor Frank is our worst case as yet. He is constantly delirious.

The others are generally sensible, except that Terry is dreadfully haunted with mathematics."

"Then it is all true about the Hall. Any one else ill?"

"Only the two Willses. They were carousing at the 'Three Pigeons.'

I hope that Raymond's prohibition against that place may have been the saving of the Hall servants. See here," and he gave the note.

"I had better take those two funerals. I can at least do that,"

said Herbert. "That Driver must be a regular case of a hireling."

"He never professed that the sheep were his," said Julius.

"Then I'll go to the Vicarage and get a list of the sick, and see after them as far as I can," said Herbert, in a grave, humble tone, showing better than a thousand words how he felt the deprivation he had brought on himself; and as to shame or self-consciousness, the need had swallowed them all.

"It will be a great act of kindness, Herbert. The point of infection does not seem clear yet, but I am afraid it will be a serious outbreak."

"I did not believe it could all be true when the report came to Rood House, but of course I came to hear the truth and see what I could do. How is Mrs. Poynsett bearing up?"

"Bravely. Anne contrived our carrying her up-stairs, and it is the greatest comfort to Raymond to lie and look at her, and Susan looks after them both."

"Then he can't be so very ill."

"Not so acutely, but there are symptoms that make Worth anxious.