“No wonder you are exhausted,” she said, when he was somewhat revived. “You are wearing yourself out; your nerves are constantly on the rack. I don’t understand you at all, Mr. Moore. In public life you have the courage and strength of a giant—I have been reading about you only this morning in the _Post_; but in private life—here—you behave just like a nervous woman. I really feel quite ashamed of you before the doctors. If you do not take care, they will form a very poor opinion of the Prime Minister’s fortitude.” She spoke boldly, knowing that the rebuke was just what he needed, and that it would have a salutary effect. The Premier regarded her with astonishment, and a sharp rejoinder rose to his lips; but he repressed it, and the momentary gleam of anger died out of his eyes. “You are right,” he returned, his hands falling dejectedly to his side; “but I have had so much worry lately; I think my nerves are unstrung. And you don’t know—what it is to love a child—as I love my Phyllis.” Her eyes deepened with feeling. “Ah, but I do!” she said, with a sudden catch in her voice. “I too have a child—a little darling whom I may never see again, although he is as dear to me as your little girl is to you. But I am brave, or at least I try to be.... And Phyllis will get better. My case is more hopeless than yours.” “Phyllis will get better?” He grasped at the words as a drowning man clutches a straw. “I pray God she may! I pray God she may!” Then he leant his head against his hands, and continued, as though speaking to himself: “I am not superstitious—a sensible man has no right to give way to such folly; but I thought the judgment of Heaven had fallen when Phyllis was taken ill. The Jews.... They are the bane of my life ... they would pay me out if they could. Pharaoh oppressed them, and was smitten with the ten plagues.... But I won’t be beaten; I _won’t_.... Not if fifty plagues come on my people—not if Phyllis dies. _If Phyllis dies...._ Good God, what am I saying? She must not die.... Any judgment from Heaven—but not that ... my one little ewe lamb. Eh?” he added thickly, as Patricia made a movement. “What was I talking about? The brandy has got into my head, I think. Let me go—into the garden; I must have air.” He stumbled up to the French window, which, by means of a flight of steps, gave access to the lawn. Patricia assisted him to descend, and rang hastily for his valet. Then she returned to the sick-room, thereby incurring the displeasure of the doctor; for in the hours that she was not on duty it was necessary that she should rest. “I am on my way to bed now,” she whispered, glancing tenderly at the unconscious child; “but I wanted to tell you something, doctor. Mr. Moore seems very much unstrung, and I should like you to prescribe for him before you go. He has to preside at a Cabinet Meeting to-morrow, and unless he sleeps to-night, I am sure he will be unable to attend.” The physician nodded.