As the verses went on, John touched my elbow: "Miss Gay," he whispered; his eyelashes moist with the melody of the music. I have often thought since that we might have seen by these very moods of John--his thoughts bent upon heaven more than upon earth--that his life was swiftly passing. There's not much to tell of that Sunday. We dined in the middle of the day; John fell asleep after dinner; and in the evening we attended church again. And I think every one was ready for bed when bedtime came. I know I was. Therefore it was all the more surprising when, the next morning, John said he had again not slept. "What, not at all!" exclaimed his mother. "No, not at all. As I went to bed, so I got up--sleepless." "I never heard of such a thing!" cried Lady Whitney. "Perhaps, John, you were too tired to sleep?" "Something of that sort," he answered. "I felt both tired and sleepy when I got into bed; particularly so. But I had no sleep: not a wink. I could not lie still, either; I was frightfully restless all night; just as I was the night before. I suppose it can't be the bed?" "Is the bed not comfortable?" asked his mother. "It seems as comfortable a bed as can be when I first lie down in it. And then I grow restless and uneasy." "It must be the restlessness of extreme fatigue," said Lady Whitney. "I fear the journey was rather too much for you my dear." "Oh, I shall be all right as soon as I can sleep, mamma." We had a surprise that morning. John and I were standing before a tart-shop, our eyes glued to the window, when a voice behind us called out, "Don't they look nice, boys!" Turning round, there stood Henry Carden of Worcester, arm-in-arm with a little white-haired gentleman. Lady Whitney, in at the fishmonger's next door, came out while he was shaking hands with us. "Dear me!--is it you?" she cried to Mr. Carden. "Ay," said he in his pleasant manner, "here am I at Pumpwater! Come all this way to spend a couple of days with my old friend: Dr. Tambourine," added the surgeon, introducing him to Lady Whitney. Any way, that was the name she understood him to say. John thought he said Tamarind, and I Carrafin. The street was noisy. The doctor seemed to be chatty and courteous, a gentleman of the old school. He said his wife should do herself the honour of calling upon Lady Whitney if agreeable; Lady Whitney replied that it would be. He and Mr. Carden, who would be starting for Worcester by train that afternoon, walked with us up the Parade to the Pump Room. How a chance meeting like this in a strange place makes one feel at home in it! The name turned out to be Parafin. Mrs. Parafin called early in the afternoon, on her way to some entertainment at the Pump Room: a chatty, pleasant woman, younger than her husband. He had retired from practice, and they lived in a white villa outside the town.