In the course of the morning Dr. Rane called in at Hepburn's. It was a double shop and house; in the one were sold articles of furniture, in the other the carpenter's work was carried on. Thomas Hepburn and his family lived in the former; Henry, now dead, had occupied the latter. He was a married man, but had no children. When Dr. Rane entered the second shop, he did not at first see Thomas Hepburn; the shutters up at the window made the place dark, coming in from the bright sunshine. Thomas Hepburn saw him, however, and came forward from the workshop behind, where he had been looking on at his men. Various articles seemed to be in the course of active construction, coffins amongst the rest. "I am very sorry for this loss, Hepburn," began the doctor. "Well, sir, I've not had any hope from the first," sighed Hepburn, his face looking careworn and unusually sickly in the half light. "I don't think poor Henry had." "The fact is, Hepburn, he had not strength to carry him through the disorder; it did not attack him lightly. I did all I could." "Yes, sir, I'm sure of that," returned Hepburn--and what with his naturally weak voice, and the hammering that was going on behind, Dr. Rane had to listen with all his ears to catch the words. "We've been an ailing family always: liable to take disorders, too, more than others." Dr. Rane made no reply for the moment. He was looking at the speaker. Something in his aspect suggested the suspicion that the man was in actual fear himself. "You must keep up a good heart, you know, Hepburn." "I'd rather go a hundred miles, sir, than do what I've got to do just now amidst the dead," said Hepburn, glancing round, "_That's_ how my brother took it." "Let the workman go instead of you." The undertaker shook his head. "One _has_ to go with me; and the other is just as afraid as can be. No, I must go on myself. There'll be double work for me, now Henry's gone." "Well, Hepburn, I begin to think the fever is on the turn," said the doctor cheerily, as he walked away. The day wore on. Mrs. Rane's symptoms were decidedly those of fever, and the doctor went all the way to Whitborough himself: not far in point of distance, only that he could not well spare the time: to tell Molly Green she was to keep where she was, out of harm's way, and not return until sent for. When he returned home his wife was worse. Phillis met him at the door, and said her poor mistress's face was scarlet, and she rolled her head from side to side. Phillis wanted to remain the night, but the doctor would not have it: there was no necessity for it, he said, and she had better not be subjected to infection more than could be helped. So Phillis went away at ten o'clock.