He drove Mrs. Weekes to Lydford station as usual on a market day, and then returned home, feeling exceedingly unwell. A doctor called twice weekly at the village, and fortunately he might be seen at his surgery upon Saturdays. When Hephzibah came back her son Jarratt was waiting with the pony-trap, and she learnt the amazing news that the master was ill in bed. "Guy Fawkes and good angels!" cried Mrs. Weekes. "Philip down! Push the pony along for the love of the Lord, Jar. Who's with him?" "Mary runs in and out, and Susan, and Mrs. Taverner have been very kind." "Poor lamb! poor helpless lamb!" said the wife. Ever in extremes, she now poured forth a torrent of praise and extolled the immense virtues of Philip. She also dwelt on his practical value and her own imperishable affection and admiration for him. "Such men go down to the grave with nobody but God Almighty and their wives to mark them," she said. "'Twill be a case of 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant' if he goes. But it mustn't be. It shan't be!" "He's not in the least danger, mother." "Danger!--how can you dare to use the word? Oh, my God, to think of the staff and prop of my life tottering--and me not there! 'Danger'!--you ought to be a better son than to say it. Why for wasn't a telegram sent off? What do Mary know of sickness?" Jarratt grunted. "If she don't, she's a fool then. Another child coming and the first always got something wrong with it." "There--to think--that poor martyr! I knowed there was something wrong--felt it in my bones all yesterday. 'God send Mary's all right,' I said again and again to myself in market. But little did I think of master. I fancied 'twas no more than just a running at the nose--and all the time he was suffering agonies, no doubt. The bravery of the man! Lash the pony, can't 'e, or I'll get out and go afoot. How long are we to take? I'm itching to be at him!" Mrs. Weekes soon reached home, and swiftly swept the neighbours out of the house. "He'm asking for you, Aunt Hepsy," said Susan. "He'm very peaceful, with his medicine, an' a Bible, an' the kettle 'pon the fire; and blacksmith have made a proper long spout for the kettle as the doctor ordained, so the steam can get to him." "You go off, you chattering magpie," began Mrs. Weekes; then she hastened up to the head of the house, and found him pretty comfortable, but very crestfallen and full of the humblest apologies. "Awful sorry," he croaked. "I blush for myself, I'm sure."