‘Brother,’ said Mr. Holland solemnly, in phraseology adopted both by Papists and Puritans in exceptional circumstances and seasons of strong feeling, ‘have you any objection to joining with me in prayer, and offering up an intercession for our sick brother?’ ‘None in the world,’ replied Oliver promptly. And the two men prayed aloud by the voice of the one, for Jack Dadd. The next Sunday, Mr. Holland preached a sermon, which slightly bewildered his hearers, on the text, ‘Not they who say “Lord, Lord,” but they who do the will of my Father.’ The early October mornings were getting always darker—with a darkness which partook of white haze as well as dank wet, dimmer, chiller, when Oliver—buttoning up his great coat, as he came out of the Dadds’ house into the street, where last night’s lamps were still burning, and which had not yet woke up for the day, since not even an early milkman had put in an appearance—was startled by a woman in a bonnet and veil, hugging a shawl round her, coming out upon him from the nearest alley, and accosting him in a gasping, constrained voice. ‘Please, sir, can you tell me how Mr.—how Mr. Jack Dadd is going on this morning?’ enquired the speaker, with little pants between the broken utterances of the words. In place of answering the question, Oliver exclaimed in amazement, ‘Miss ’Liza Polley! What are you doing here at this hour of the morning?’ ‘Oh, Mr. Oliver, don’t betray me!’ cried poor ’Liza, in her natural voice, though it was quivering with distress and terror. ‘I thought you would not know me. But never mind that just now; tell me quick, how is Jack? Oh! will he die, Mr. Oliver? Will Jack die?’ ‘I hope not,’ said Oliver gently; ‘he’s no worse, and every hour gained is in his favour. But this is not a time for you to be out. It was not six when Mrs. Dadd took my seat. Let me see you home, Miss ’Liza, at once.’