“Ill? No. Why do you ask?” “Because you don’t look well, and when people are so very very good, one sometimes fancies they are——” Sheila paused, and Oscar said with a little tone of mirth in his quiet voice— “I am not going to die of goodness yet, Sheila! You need not be afraid on that score.” It was with a good deal of shrinking that Sheila prepared to face the Cossarts on the morrow. She knew that they would by this time have received the letter her aunt must have written, and that Mrs. Cossart would not have drawn her picture with a very strict regard to truth. She would have thought more of justifying her precipitate action than of anything else; and Sheila was terribly sensitive where Ronald Dumaresq was concerned, and felt as though any mention of his name would be worse than the cut of a whip. And her cousins were not sensitive on these points. They would be almost certain to cross-question her and make a joke of everything. It needed all her courage and resolution to face the meeting; but when they drew up at the door and were met by Ray in the passage, it was not of Sheila’s sudden return that the whole house was thinking. Indeed Ray only gave her a rather hurried kiss, warm and sisterly, but distinctly hasty, and then turned to Oscar and took him by the shoulders, bringing him into the strong light of the window. “Oscar, how are you? Are you sure you feel well?” “Y—yes, all right, just a little tired with all the travelling, you know. But what do you ask for?” “Oh, we are in such a fright. Typhoid fever has broken out in the town. The little office-boy you have been visiting so often has it; and everybody was saying that you were looking ill. Five cases are reported to-day, and they say there will be more. You are quite sure you are well, Oscar? Sheila, did he eat his breakfast this morning?” “He hardly ate anything either last night or to-day,” cried Sheila, in sudden anxiety. “He has a bad headache. We thought it was from the long journey.” The girls stood looking at each other in dismay. The same fear was in both hearts. Oscar turned from them and began climbing the stairs with a strange languor in his movements. “I think I’ll go to my room,” he said, “but don’t bother, I shall be all right there.” “He’s got it!” cried Ray, under her breath; and Sheila turned white to the lips. (_To be continued._) OUR PUZZLE POEMS: AN ACCIDENTAL CYCLE. FOREIGN AWARDS. AN ACCIDENTAL CYCLE I. _Prize Winners (Seven Shillings Each)._ Polly Lawrance, Elridge, Belle Ville, St. Michael, Barbados. Mrs. G. Marrett, Hyderabad, Deccan, India. Helen Shilstone, Ellangowan, Fontabelle, Barbados. _Very Highly Commended._ Ethel Beven (Ceylon), Nellie M. Daft (Portugal), Katy Donaldson (France), Hilda Jonklaas (Ceylon), M. R. Laurie (Barbados), H. Low (Canada), Florence Stephenson (Cape Town). _Highly Commended._