Just then the landlady in the bar heard the sound of wheels on the road, and the next moment a carriage drew up at the open door. "I say there, lend a hand here, quick!" shouted the driver. Mrs. Drayton hobbled up. The flyman was leaning through the door of the fly, helping some one to alight. "Take a' arm, missy; there, that's the size of it. Now, sir, down, gently." The person assisted was a man. The light from the bar fell on his face, and the landlady saw him clearly. It was Paul Ritson. He was flushed, and his eyes were bloodshot. Behind him was Mercy Fisher, with recent tears on her cheeks. "Oh, he's ill, Mrs. Drayton," said Mercy. Paul freed one of his arms from the grasp of the girl, waved with a gesture of deprecation, smiled a jaunty smile, and said: "No, no, no; let me walk; I'm well--I'm well." With this he made for the house, but before he had taken a second step he staggered and fell against the door-jamb. "Deary me, deary me, the poor gentleman's taken badly," said Mrs. Drayton, fussing about. Paul Ritson laughed a little, lifted his red eyes, and said: "Well, well! But it's nothing. Just dizzy, that's all. And thirsty--very--give me a drink, good woman." "Bring that there bench up, missy, and we'll put him astride it," said the driver. "Right; that's the time o' day. Now, sir, down." "Deary me, deary me, drink this, my good gentleman. It'll do you a mort o' good. It's brandy." "Water--bring me water," said Paul Ritson, feebly; "I'm parched." "How hot his forehead is," said Mercy. "And no light 'un to lift, neither," said the driver. "Does he live here, missis?" Mrs. Drayton brought a glass of water. Paul drained it to the last drop. "No, sir; I mean yes, driver," said the landlady, confusedly. "He warn't so bad getting in," the driver observed. "Oh, dear, oh, dear! where is Mr. Christian--Parson Christian?" said Mercy, whose distracted eyes wandered around. "The gentleman's come, sir; he's upstairs, sir," said the landlady, and, muttering to herself, Mrs. Drayton hobbled away. Paul Ritson's head had fallen on his breast. His hat was off, and his hair tumbled over his face. The strong man sat coiled up on the bench. Then he shook himself and threw up his head, as if trying to cast off the weight of stupor that sat on him. "Well, well! who'd have thought of this? Water--more water!" he mumbled in a thick voice. Mercy stood before him with a glass in her hand. "Is it good for him, I wonder?" she said. "Oh, where is Mr. Christian?" Paul Ritson saw the glass, clutched at it with both hands, then smiled a poor, weak smile, as if to atone for his violence, and drank every drop. "Well, well!--so hot--and dizzy--and cold!" he muttered, incoherently. Then he relapsed into silence. After a moment, the driver, who was supporting him at the back, looked over at his face. The eyes were closed, and the lips were hanging. "He's gone off unconscious," said the flyman. "Ain't ye got a bed handy?"