Cyril got through his portion of the service somehow; but the gray old church walls, the monuments to departed citizens, the draped females leaning upon anchors, the chubby cherubs blowing trumpets, the urns and tablets danced before his eyes, like a confused vision of a stonemason’s yard turned upside down. He hardly knew what he was reading. His own voice had a far-away sound, as if it belonged to some one else, or were the echo of words he read yesterday. He had a curious uncertainty of mind about times and seasons, and could not have told whether it was winter or summer. ‘I’m afraid I shall not be able to attend to my parish work this afternoon,’ he said, when the service was over. ‘No, no, my dear fellow,’ answered the Vicar, heartily. ‘Go home and rest. You’ve worked hard enough to have earned a few days’ repose. I dare say that will set you right.’ Cyril went home, and threw himself down on his bed, and lay there helpless, inert, no one knowing anything about him, till Sarah, the maid-of-all-work, came at six o’clock to lay the table for his frugal dinner. Sitting-room and bedroom adjoined. Cyril had left the door open, and Sarah was startled at seeing him lying on his bed, dressed as he had come in from the church. ‘I hope you are not ill, sir,’ said Sarah. Cyril gave her a rambling answer. She ran quickly down, and told Mrs. Podmore that Mr. Culverhouse had gone out of his mind. He was lying on his bed, and talking ever so queerly. The landlady waddled slowly upstairs, halting to pant at every landing, anxious, but too fat to travel fast, even if the house had been blazing. Just as she reached the first floor the street door bell rang. Sarah ran down to answer it, and found herself face to face with Dr. Saunders. ‘Oh, sir, how lucky you’ve come!’ exclaimed the girl, ‘Mr. Culverhouse has gone out of his mind.’ ‘Nonsense, girl!’ The doctor ran upstairs and sat down by Cyril’s bed. He found him very weak, and with a good deal of fever about him. He answered Dr. Saunders’s questions with difficulty, and had a distressed and anxious look about his brow and eyes. ‘I’ve some good news for you,’ said the doctor, cheerily. ‘Emmanuel Joyce rallied considerably during the night, and it’s Bolling’s opinion that he’ll mend.’ ‘I’m very glad of that,’ said Cyril, faintly. ‘Now how about nursing?’ inquired Mr. Saunders. ‘This is a case of exhaustion and low fever. Mr. Culverhouse has been overworking himself lately, and he’s thoroughly worn out. He will want a great deal of care. Good nursing will be important.’ ‘As far as my strength will let me he shall have every care,’ protested Mrs. Podmore. ‘But I can’t boast of a strong constitution, and I’m troubled with my breath if I move about much. But as to beef tea, and chicken broth, and jelly, I can make them as well as any one.’