There was sympathy in Alec’s face, if there was none in his language; and as he slowly walked homewards he asked himself, ‘Why should I not do it? I have all I need; more, probably, than I shall ever wish to use. Of course it is a risk; but I don’t think I could do better.’ And next morning Thomas Hardy received a short note, which enclosed a cheque for three hundred pounds, signed ‘Alexander Lindsay.’ CHAPTER XXXVI. SICK UNTO DEATH. It was a wet, cheerless day in the end of March. The rain fell without ceasing, and the air was bitterly cold. There was not a sign of spring in field or hedgerow; and here and there, in the furrows and in sheltered spots where the wind could not penetrate, the snow still lingered. Alec Lindsay was seated in the battered old coach, being conveyed to the Castle Farm. He had determined to see if his native air would restore him to health. For he could no longer persuade himself that there was little or nothing the matter with him. He felt weaker every day. The preparations for leaving London and the long journey had tired him excessively; and now his one desire was for rest. As the lumbering vehicle approached the well-remembered corner, he saw the dog-cart waiting. His father was driving it; and the old man was startled when he saw his son’s face, and still more when he took his hand. ‘You are far from well, Alec,’ said the laird. ‘I am tired. I shall be better to-morrow,’ said he, getting into the dog-cart. ‘I think we had better stop at Dr. Henderson’s, and ask him to come over and see you to-morrow.’ ‘Oh dear me, no,’ said Alec, in an irritated tone. ‘I only want a good night’s rest.’ But on the following morning he did not come down to breakfast. He had caught a cold on the journey, and he complained of a pain in his side. Dr. Henderson was sent for, and when he saw his patient he looked very grave. ‘Inflammation of the lungs,’ he said to Mr. Lindsay, when he went downstairs. ‘But there is no danger, is there?’ asked the old laird, with alarm in his eyes. ‘I would not like to say there’s no danger,’ said the doctor cautiously. ‘He’s young, and I hope he’ll win through; but he seems very listless and careless about himself. That’s a bad sign.’ ‘You’ll do all that can be done, I’m sure, doctor; but if you think further advice desirable, you’ll not spare expense.’ ‘A’ the doctors in Europe could do no more than I’m doing,’ said the doctor testily. ‘I’ll come round the morn. He may be easier then, but I doubt no. We must have patience.’ Margaret nursed her brother with great skill and tenderness. She was born to be a nurse; and her habitual self-repression made it easy for her to conceal the anxiety she was feeling.