And he was to follow her with _Less Than the Beasts_. The farm-yard claimed him for its own once more. He must go in up to his knees, up to his middle, up to his chin. But as he progressed he forgot his surroundings, his auditory; all he felt was the fate of his poor heroine, the pitiful farm-drudge, sunk in hopeless wrong and misery. He read in his very best manner, with abundant feeling and full conviction, and for a moment his hearers felt with him. Then came a last elegiac paragraph, and here Abner's voice grew husky, his throat filled, he coughed, and as he laid aside his last sheet and turned to rise a quick pain darted through his chest; he coughed again and involuntarily raised his hand against his breast, and the acute and sudden pang was signalled clearly in his face. Whyland advanced quickly. "_Now_," he said, in a low tone, "you must let me have _my_ way--if it isn't too late. Come." He led Abner toward the dining-room. "It is nothing," said Abner, on his return. "It is something, I am sure," said Edith Whyland, with great solicitude. "It is something serious, I feel certain," said Medora, pale as her dress. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Abner. "I shall know just what to do as soon as I get home----" He clutched at his breast again. "You will not go home to-night," said Whyland. Abner did not go home that night, nor the next, nor the next. He was put to bed in an upper chamber and remained there. Outside was the gray welter of the lake. Its white-capped waves knocked viciously against the trembling sea-wall, and their spray, flying across the drenched bed of the Drive, stung on the window-panes as if to say, in every drop, "It is we, we who have brought you to this!" Medora sent her brother next morning to make inquiries, and at noon she came herself. "The nurse will be here in an hour or two," said Edith Whyland. "I will stay till she arrives," said Medora. For a fortnight Abner lay muffled in that big, luxurious bed and did as he was told. "Men!" said Medora. "They don't know anything; they have no idea of looking after themselves. And the bigger they are, the more helpless." Abner had his good days and his bad, and suffered the gentle tyranny of two or three solicitous women, and trusted that his sudden illness was making due public stir. The Readjusters, who had lately been asking after him, first heard of his plight from the press. The same newspapers that brought them further details of the adventures of the new Pence-Whyland Franchise in the Common Council informed them that Abner Joyce--Abner, the one time foe of privilege--lay ill in Leverett Whyland's own house. "He is no longer one of us," pronounced the Readjusters. "We disown him; we cast him off." XXIII On one of the earliest days in April, Abner, gaunt and tottering, went home to Flatfield. Leverett Whyland's own carriage took him to the station and Medora Giles's own hands arranged his cushions and coverlets.