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 abou