"I was afraid so," muttered Oldroyd, with his eyes scanning the white, fixed countenance before him. "He must have taken it as he stood by the table, and fallen at once. Poor fellow! Poor fellow! He must have been mad." These words were uttered as, with all the prompt decision of a medical man, Oldroyd was examining his friend; his first act being to ascertain what the little bottle had contained. It was no easy task to free it from the stiffened fingers; but he tore it away at last, held it to the light, to his nostrils, and then set it quickly upon the table, with an impatient exclamation. "And I call myself a practised doctor," he muttered, "and let my fancy carry me away as it did. Poor fellow! He must have felt it coming on, and tried that ammonia to keep off the sensation. Suffered from it before, perhaps," he continued, as he laid Alleyne's head more easily, tore open his handkerchief and collar; and then, after drawing up the lids and examining the pupils of his eyes, he hurriedly threw open both windows, and caught up a chart from a side table. His next act was to ring the bell furiously, and then return to Alleyne's side and begin fanning his head vigorously. It was Lucy who answered the bell, running in exclaiming,-- "Oh, Philip, what is it, pray?" "Don't make a fuss, darling," he said, quickly. "Be a firm little woman. I want your help. Cold water, a big basin, sponge, brandy, vinegar. Quick?" Lucy made an effort to compose herself, and the prompt order had its due effect, for she ran out, to return in a few minutes laden with all Oldroyd had demanded. "That's right," he said, quickly; and in answer to Lucy's inquiring eyes, "A fit, dear. He has overdone it. Exhaustion. Brain symptoms. Over pressure. That's well. Now, the brandy. Here, you take this card and keep on fanning, while I bathe his head with the spirit and water. We must cool his head. Fan away. Be calm now. A doctor's wife must not cry. That's brave." All the while he was applying the sponge, saturated with spirit and water, to Alleyne's temples, and checking Lucy when she seemed disposed to break down, the result being that she worked busily and well. "Well done, brave little woman," he cried, encouragingly. "It is a regular fit of exhaustion, and we must not let it come to anything more. Give me the fan, dear. No, go on. I'll apply some more water. Evaporates quickly, you see, and relieves the brain. Spirit stimulates, even taken through the pores like that. Good heavens, what a mat of hair. Quick! Scissors. I must get rid of some of this." He now took the extemporised fan from Lucy's fingers, using it energetically, while she rose from her knees, and ran to get a pair of her sharpest scissors, with which Oldroyd remorselessly sheared off the long unkempt locks from his patient's temples.