Busy talking they did not particularly notice that Charles had risen from his chair at the breakfast table and was seated at a distant table opening his letters until a faint sound, something like a groan, startled them; he was leaning back in his chair seemingly unconscious, his hands had fallen, his face gave signs of the grave; surely those dews upon it were not the dews of death! Martha screamed, Matilda flung open the door and called out for help; Mary only turned to them her hands lifted to enjoin silence, a warning word upon her lips, their old servant came running in and looked at Charles. “He’ll be better directly,” he whispered. “Yes, he will be better,” assented Mary, “but I should call the doctor.” Charles began to revive. He slowly opened his eyes and raised his hand to wipe the moisture from his white brow. On the table before him lay one of the letters open. Mary pushed the letters aside with a gesture of grievous vexation. “It is this business that has affected you,” she cried out with a wail. “Not so,” breathed Charles. “It was the pain here.” He touched himself below the chest in the same place where the pain had been before. What had caused the pain, mental agony arising from overwork or the physical agony arising from disease? Probably some of both. He stretched out his hand toward the letters making a motion that they should be placed in envelopes. George, who could not have read a word without his glasses, took up the letters, folded them and put them in their envelopes. Charles’ mind seemed at rest and he closed his eyes again. “I’ll step for the doctor now,” whispered George to Mary, “I shall catch him before he goes out on his rounds.” He took his hat and went down the road to the office, putting forth his best step, when he reached the office the doctor had gone. “Will he be long,” asked George? “I don’t know,” was the reply, “he was called out at seven this morning.” “He is wanted at the Taylor mansion. Mr. Taylor is worse.” “Is he?” returned the assistant, his quick tone indicating concern. “I can tell you where he is, and that’s at Bangs,” continued the assistant. “You might call and speak to him if you like, it’s on your way home.” George hastened there and succeeded in finding the doctor. He informed him that Charles was worse; was very sick. “One of the old attacks of pain, I suppose,” said the doctor. “Yes, sir,” answered George. “He was taken sick while answering letters. Miss Mary thought it might be overwork that brought it on.”