One night, or rather early one morning, he came home to the old studio in St. John’s Wood, evidently under the influence of violent fever. He had caught cold, he thought, at the wings of the Duchess’s Theatre, and, though he had tried the panacea of hot whisky and water, applied in allopathic doses, it had only seemed to make him worse. He went to bed, and the next day he was unable to rise. When Madeline went to his bedside she was shocked at his appearance. He looked haggard and old, the great veins on his temple were blue and swollen, and he gasped like one who could hardly get his breath. The ghost of his old smile came to his face as he reached out his trembling hands, which were hot as fire. ‘Don’t be alarmed, my dear,’ he said cheerily, but in a strange, faint voice. ‘I’m not quite myself, but I shall be all right presently. I think it’s the effect of Burnard’s jokes. He was at the “Harum-Scarum” last night, so I’m afraid I partook too freely of pun-salad, which is worse than the nightmare-producing lobster.’ He tried to laugh, but the laugh died away into a moan, and he sank back upon his pillow. Later on in the day the symptoms became so alarming that a physician was sent for. He made light of the patient’s condition, but wrote him a prescription, and ordered him to be kept as quiet as possible. Within the next twenty-four hours the symptoms became manifestly those of low or gastric fever. Madeline wrote a hurried line for Forster, who came almost immediately, accompanied by the celebrated Dr. Tain, well known for his kindness to literary men. The good doctor looked somewhat grave, but expressed his opinion that the case would yield to treatment. From that time forward Madeline scarcely left her guardian’s bedside, ministering to him with infinite tenderness and care. The fever ran its course for fourteen days, during several of which White was more or less insensible. On the morning of the fourteenth day he opened his eyes, saw Madeline seated by his bedside, and smiled brightly. ‘Are you there, my dear?’ he asked. ‘I was dreaming about you. I thought you were a little girl again, and I--dear me, how weak I feel! Have I been very ill?’ ‘Very ill,’ answered Madeline. ‘But do not talk; the doctor says you must not. Let me bring your beef-tea.’ The doctor had ordered him to have beef-tea in liberal portions every hour: it was the only way, he said, to combat the fever. ‘I think I shall soon be all right,’ said White, presently. ‘I must take more care of myself for the future, though. I’m getting quite an old fellow, and must go to bed at ten. When Dr. Tain entered, White looked up and nodded cheerfully. ‘Here I am, you see! _Pallida Mors_ won’t have me this time, after all, and I was thinking that I could eat a mutton chop, well peppered.’ The doctor replied cheerfully, and patted White gently on the shoulder; but Madeline, catching the expression of his face as he turned away, was somewhat troubled.