Whatever might be the matter, the first thing was to get him into the house, and make him lie down. I moved a little, holding him fast, and mechanically he followed his support; so that, although with some difficulty, I soon got him round the house, and into the great hall-kitchen, our usual sitting-room; there was fire there that would only want rousing, and, warm as was the night, I felt him very cold. I let him sink on the wide sofa, covered him with my cloak, and ran to rouse old Penny. The aged sleep lightly, and she was up in an instant. I told her that a gentleman I knew had come to the house, either sleep-walking or delirious, and she must come and help me with him. She struck a light, and followed me to the kitchen. John lay with his eyes closed, in a dead faint. We got him to swallow some brandy, and presently he came to himself a little. Then we put him in my warm bed, and covered him with blankets. In a minute or so he was fast asleep. He had not spoken a word. I left Penny to watch him, and went and dressed myself, thinking hard. The result was, that, having enjoined Penny to let no one near him, _whoever_ it might be, I went to the stable, saddled Zoe, and set off for Wittenage. It was sixteen miles of a ride. The moon went down, and the last of my journey was very dark, for the night was cloudy; but we arrived in safety, just as the dawn was promising to come as soon as it could. No one in the town seemed up, or thinking of getting up. I had learned a lesson from John, however, and I knew Martha's window, which happily looked on the street. I got off Zoe, who was tired enough to stand still, for she was getting old and I had not spared her, and proceeded to search for a stone small enough to throw at the window. The scared face of Martha showed itself almost immediately. “It's me!” I cried, no louder than she could just hear; “it's me, Martha! Come down and let me in.” Without a word of reply, she left the window, and after some fumbling with the lock, opened the door, and came out to me, looking gray with scare, but none the less with all her wits to her hand. “How is my uncle, Martha?” I said. “Much better,” she answered. “Then I must see him at once!” “He's fast asleep, child! It would be a world's pity to wake him!” “It would be a worse pity not!” I returned. “Very well: must-be must!” she answered. I made Zoe fast to the lamp-post: the night was warm, and hot as she was, she would take no hurt. Then I followed Martha up the stair. But my uncle was awake. He had heard a little of our motions and whisperings, and lay in expectation of something. “I thought I should hear from you soon!” he said. “I wrote to Mr. Day on Thursday, but have had no reply. What has happened? Nothing serious, I hope?” “I hardly know, uncle. John Day is lying at our house, unable to move or speak.” My uncle started up as if to spring from his bed, but fell back again with a groan.