He didn’t quite know what he was saying, as he rose slowly, swaying to one side, and putting out his hand to steady himself. Certainly there was something the matter, Sam thought, and he walked with him as far as the gate and offered to go the rest of the way if Rex would like to have him. But Rex declined his escort, and bidding him good afternoon went on toward home very slowly, with a feeling that something had happened to him or was going to happen, he did not know which. One fact, however, stood out distinctly in his mind. He had not sent the letter and he was glad. Irene had deceived him, and he must wait till he saw her, and then—He did not know what then. He was only conscious of a sense of great relief as if he had escaped a danger, but by the time he reached home the pain in his head overmastered every other feeling, and Colin found him sitting in the hall where he had dropped into a chair, very white and uncertain as to where he was or what was the matter. “My head is pretty bad and dizzy,” he said. “I think it is the heat. I shall be better when I get to my room but I guess you will have to go with me. I don’t quite remember the way and am weak as water. I wish Tom were here.” Colin looked at him in some alarm. He knew of the fever in the village, which was causing dismay among the inhabitants. As yet it had been confined to the poorer class in the narrow streets where there was filth with poverty and squalor. None of the better class had it and it hardly seemed possible to Colin that a guest in his house, where there was extreme cleanliness and every possible luxury, could fall a victim to the malarious disease. But there was certainly something wrong with Rex, whose speech became every moment more incoherent, and Colin went with him to his room and summoned the housekeeper, Mrs. Frye, and sent for the doctor, whom Nixon fortunately met near the house on his way from visiting a patient further up the road. “He hasn’t the fever, of course?” Colin said, anxiously, as he watched the doctor examining Rex and taking his temperature. “He couldn’t get it in this house, where everything is spick and span clean, cellar whitewashed twice this year, drains clean as a whistle, traps all right, water filtered, and all that. He can’t have the fever!” The doctor made no reply for a few moments, while he was dealing out medicine, with directions how to give it. “I am very sorry,” he said, at last, “very sorry to tell you that in spite of your cellar and drain and traps and filtered water, Mr. Travers has the fever, and I think it has been coming on for some days. It bids fair to be the crazy kind, as he is already out of his head. Keep him as quiet as you can; better have a trained nurse at once. Good afternoon. I’ll look in again to-night. I have a good many more patients to see. The fever is spreading.” CHAPTER XVIII THE TRAINED NURSE