Then she wrung her wet garments, got into the trap, and drove as fast as she could homewards. It was a lonely bit of country, and after satisfying herself that Chuckles was well and warm, she did not go out of her way to look for any houses. Her nerves were strong, but the realisation how near the child had been to death that afternoon set her face in tense lines, and made her strong capable hands tremble. More than once she bent over the child to listen to his breathing. She caught herself picturing her return home with a little drowned body at her feet, and she shuddered at the vista it opened out before her of a purposeless future and a wasted past. A strong keen wind blew in from the sea; the clouds rolled up and obscured the sun, and Monica shivered with cold. She found driving in drenched garments a very miserable experience. She had not even a rug over her knees, nothing to protect her from the rising storm. And about two miles from home, the storm broke full upon her. She drove into her own gates with a blue face and chattering teeth, but in spite of all Aunt Dannie's expostulations, she would not change her wet garments till she had put Chuckles to bed with her own hands, given him something hot to drink, and seen him drop off into a quiet sleep. Then, she thought of herself, and went off to her own room to get into dry clothes. The next morning she was too racked with pain to get out of bed, and before another day dawned she was in the throes of rheumatic fever. Sidney did not hear of it till the evening, and then she left Thanning Towers and went over to help nurse her friend. Jockie carried off Chuckles to the Rectory, and Aunt Dannie and Sidney, with the doctor's help, fought hard to keep death at bay. Monica was a strong woman, but for once she had presumed too much upon her hardy constitution, and Nature asserted itself with a vengeance. She was wrapped in cotton-wool from head to foot, and fever ran high. It was pitiful to hear her repeating over and over again: "Save the child! It does not matter about me. He must live. Oh, leave me, and help him! Don't you hear his cries for help?" Dr. Lanyard was indefatigable in his care and attention. "We can't spare her yet, Miss Urquhart," he would say to Sidney; "hers is a valuable life. We must not let her slip!" And Sidney prayed earnestly for her recovery, and nursed her with fervent devotion. The doctor at last insisted upon a nurse, for he saw that Sidney was wearing herself out. Aunt Dannie was not of much use in the sickroom, and when Monica was conscious, the poor old lady's nervous fussy movements seemed to irritate her. So Sidney persuaded her to remain downstairs and try to superintend the many daily duties of the servants and farm hands.