With many sorrowful charges from her to Gwyneth to have a fire lighted, and dry, warm clothes in readiness, the couple took their way together, although the father earnestly remonstrated against Hilary’s exposing herself to such needless inconvenience. It was vain to attempt to hold an umbrella; petticoats flapped wildly in the wind, and caught the dashing torrents of rain as they fell; but under the churchyard wall, there was a little shelter, and rain alone comparatively inconvenienced them, during the out-of-door service. When it was over, Hilary, bidding the poor women, all so wet and draggled, to come up to the Vicarage to dry and warm themselves, hurried her father home as fast as infirmity and tempest would allow him; and wet, breathless, exhausted by the contest with the elements, they reached the house at last. But the struggle had almost overpowered him, and on his arrival, he was attacked with a sort of faintness which greatly alarmed his daughters. He revived after a short time, and smiled at their solicitude; but although he seemed to rally, he complained once or twice in the evening of extreme chilliness, and before night it was quite evident he had caught a violent cold. Morning did not bring the comfort which he had endeavored to persuade his daughters would accompany it; sore throat and fever were apparent, and Hilary, in great alarm, dispatched a hurried messenger for the doctor. Gwyneth was most miserable; her father’s illness overpowered her feelings, and that it should be caused by the apparent neglect of Mr. Ufford, aggravated her distress. She wearied herself in inventing unsatisfactory excuses for his absence, each one of which was abandoned as unlikely, after being entertained for a short period; and the conviction that he would call that morning to excuse his absence, was so strong, that every moment she fancied she heard the latch of the wicket-gate. The doctor came, prescribed for his patient, shook his head, and avoided giving a definite opinion; contenting himself with observing, he had taken a chill, and they must make him better if they could. Hilary kept her own thoughts to herself, unwilling prematurely to alarm her sisters; but she wrote to Sybil. The vacation was so near, that she thought Mrs. Farrington would easily arrange to hurry her departure, even if she were obliged to leave her husband behind for a few days. The day passed heavily away; the storm had ceased, but the sky was dull, and the earth damp and dreary; and the exterior dullness was well answered by the blank within. All there was dull indeed.