THE summer came in all its glory, a splendid summer for the wide airy corn-fields, where the lark sang high in a heaven of cloudless blue, above the broad ripples of tawny gold--a splendid summer for Hyde Park and the green valley through which Father Thames winds his silvern ribbon,--a delicious summer for the rich and prosperous in the land, for whom sunshine means pleasure; but a terrible summer for the overcrowded manufacturing town of Bridford, where a hot season meant fever and disease in its most malignant form. In the seething boiling-pot of those Bridford alleys the fair July weather brought endless sorrow and trouble; and wherever the trouble was worst and the sorrow heaviest Cyril Culverhouse was to be found. Night after night he was to be seen moving, quietly as a shadow, from house to house, to sit for an hour reading the gospel to some fever-parched sufferer whose dull eyes might never see another sunset. The days were not long enough for his work at this woeful time. He was obliged to give at least half his nights, and very often the whole of them, to his sad duties. ‘If you don’t take care, my dear fellow, you’ll knock yourself up,’ remonstrated the port-winey Vicar, shocked at his curate’s hollow eyes and pale cheeks. ‘It’s no use sacrificing yourself in this way. We’ve the same thing every summer. The thermometer and the death-rate go up together. Sanitary reform is what we want, Culverhouse. We Churchmen can do very little good.’ ‘We can only do our duty,’ answered Cyril. ‘I am not afraid of fever.’ ‘Well, as a single man you can face it with less scruple. I should go a great deal more among these poor creatures, but Mrs. Rollings is dreadfully nervous. She is so frightened about infection. With our large family we are bound to be careful. Even the funerals make her anxious. She won’t let me go near the children after I’ve buried a fever case. It’s a deplorable state of things.’ Cyril faced these deplorable things without fear or wavering. What had he to fear? It was such work as his soul loved. To be where he was most wanted, where the sky was darkest and his little lamp could be of most avail, that was his idea of a parish priest’s mission. No heathens worshipping their wooden fetish in flowery islands of the fair South Seas could be further away from the light than these lost sheep of Israel; and it was to such as these he felt himself especially sent.