Several days passed, and then the terrible crisis came—a crisis the memory of which makes many a Frenchman shudder to-day—and then, before the horrors of the insurrection had fairly begun to subside, there went abroad the paralyzing rumor that cholera had broken out in the doomed city. Who shall describe the weeks that followed? The terrors of riot and of war were as nothing compared with the onward march of that silent and stealthy foe, that mowed down thousands with its invisible but deadly weapons. Dr. Winthrop was in Paris through it all, and had thrown himself heart and soul into caring for the perishing ones around him. He had advised his father and brother to take the family and go to England or Scotland, or to some other healthful resort, where there would be little or no danger of the dread disease. But his mother obstinately refused to go, while he remained, and of course the other members of the family would not leave her. Every one else had fled from the villa upon the first rumor of cholera, and Mrs. Rochester would have been glad to follow, but her daughter was as obstinate as Madame Winthrop herself. She had so set her heart upon winning Truman Winthrop, so determined to secure the prize for which she had schemed and humiliated herself, that she resolved to boldly face death rather than run the risk of losing him. Besides, Norman Winthrop was obliged to remain. So the Winthrops and the Rochesters had the magnificent villa to themselves, and a charming place it was. It was finely and healthfully situated, and Dr. Winthrop said that if they were bound to remain in France they could not be in a better place. Still he would have much preferred that they should go to Scotland, and it was a continual cause for anxiety to know that they were in danger from the pestilence. Mr. Tillinghast, too, had refused to leave his friend, but he was also one of those heroes who never think of self, and he had insisted upon going into the hospital to act under the direction of Dr. Winthrop. But in his enthusiasm he overtaxed himself, and one day he was stricken with the dread disease. Dr. Winthrop felt as if the “tug of war” had set in, in good earnest. He could not devote himself exclusively to his friend, for the entire care of some of the wards of the hospital devolved upon him during certain hours of each day, while nurses were very scarce, and he found it impossible to secure the constant services of any one in the private room which he had, by paying an exorbitant price, managed to secure for Tillinghast. “I must have a nurse and a competent one,” he exclaimed, almost in despair, after searching for more than an hour one day, and an hour in the race with death was very precious.