Mr. Benjy didn’t take his usual afternoon ramble on Sunday afternoon. The Monday before he had got thoroughly wet, walking to the station, and had returned in the evening with a cold. It had remained with him until Friday, getting neither better nor worse. But on Friday he had left his work shortly after noon and crawled home to bed, a sick man. The doctor called it congestion of the lungs and to Mr. Benjy’s dismay, intimated that a prolonged vacation was in order. Saturday saw no improvement, nor did Sunday. On Monday it was known to the boys that Mr. Benjy was very ill indeed. The doctor came twice during the day and again late that evening. The house became very still, the boys tiptoeing up- and down-stairs and about their rooms for fear of disturbing Mr. Benjy’s fitful slumbers. Both Barry and Peaches offered their services, but Mrs. Lyle and Betty were equal to the requirements, and beyond an occasional errand to the village drug store there seemed nothing any one else could do. The doctor remained encouraging. The patient did not have pneumonia, and, while he was not responding to treatment as well as might have been expected, there was no cause for immediate alarm. The trouble, as Betty explained to Barry and Peaches, was that Mr. Benjy’s heart was weak; “tired” the doctor called it; and most of the danger lay there. “He’s sort of lost his grip, I think,” she added. “He doesn’t seem to care now whether he gets well or not. And he troubles a good deal about――things.” “Davy?” asked Peaches. Betty nodded. “Yes, and the money he owes the factory people, and――and things like that. When his fever is worst he wants to get up and go to work, and we have a hard time quieting him. Last night it was the mortgage money.” Betty smiled wanly. “You might as well know. Father has never yet been able to pay wholly for this place, and now that he thinks――thinks he isn’t going to get well, it worries him.” “Is the interest due now?” asked Peaches. “Not for days, but he’s sort of lost track and thinks it’s due, and he doesn’t pay any attention when we tell him it isn’t.” “He oughtn’t to be allowed to worry about that,” said Peaches. “You ask your mother, Betty, to let me know when the payment is due and how much it is. I’m kind of fond of Mr. Benjy, you know, and I’d like to do some little thing besides bringing fruit he can’t eat and flowers he probably doesn’t notice.” “Oh, but he does!” exclaimed Betty. “He always notices everything, and loves the flowers.” “Well, you and your mother had better let me look after the mortgage and things like that until he’s on his feet again,” continued Peaches, persuasively. “She will have enough to think about, and so will you.” “I’ll ask her,” replied Betty. “It’s dear of you to want to do it, Peaches, but I’m afraid she won’t listen to it.” “I don’t see why,” said Peaches, placidly. “I’m not trying to give the money. I’m just loaning it until Mr. Benjy can pay it back.”