"Yes," she said, hesitatingly, not precisely understanding to what circumstances he alluded. Mr. King resumed. "Nothing is more essential in these cases of low fever than plenty of fresh air and generous nourishment. The one he cannot get, lying where he does; to obtain the other may be almost as difficult. If these low fevers cannot be checked, they go on very often to--to----" "To what?" a terrible dread upon her that he meant to say, "to death." "To typhus," quietly remarked the surgeon. "Oh, but that is dangerous!" she cried, clasping her hands. "That sometimes goes on to death." "Yes," said Mr. King; and it struck her that his tone was significant. "You must try and prevent it, doctor--you must save him," she cried; and her imploring accents, her trembling hands, proved to the surgeon how great was her emotion. He shook his head: the issues of life and death were not in his power. "My dear lady, I will do what I am enabled to do; more, I cannot. We poor human doctors can only work under the hand of God." CHAPTER XLIX A RED-LETTER DAY There are some happy days in the most monotonous, the least favoured life; periods on which we can look back always, even to the life's end, and say, "That was a red-letter day!" Such a day had arisen for Trevlyn Farm. Perhaps never, since the unhappy accident which had carried away its master, had so joyful a day dawned for Mrs. Ryle and George--certainly never one that brought half the satisfaction; for George Ryle was going up to the Hold to clear off the last instalment of Mr. Chattaway's debt.