“I am afraid my turn has come at last,” Dr. Winthrop replied, as he swallowed the potion of brandy at one gulp. “I have felt some pain all the afternoon and have been treating myself; but, in spite of all, I believe the disease has a grip on me.” “Cholera?” gasped his friend, a look of terror on his face. “Yes, and no light attack, either.” A spasm of agony convulsed his features as he spoke, and he sank weakly upon the nearest chair. “What shall I do for you, True?” his companion asked. “We must not delay—man! man! tell me—what shall I do?” This last appeal was made in great alarm, as Dr. Winthrop seemed on the verge of losing consciousness. “Send some one for Sister Angela at once, then get me to bed as soon as possible, with hot bottles and blankets,” the young physician feebly directed. The whole household was aroused immediately, and everybody was greatly frightened, for Dr. Winthrop seemed to be their mainstay and bulwark of defense. But he continued to grow rapidly and alarmingly worse, and by the time Sister Angela arrived with a skilful physician, whom she had called upon her own responsibility, he was almost in a state of insensibility. It was fortunate for the gentle nun that she had had ample time to rest and recruit her strength before having to meet this fresh ordeal, for Dr. Winthrop was a very sick man, and Mr. Tillinghast regretted that he had not tried to secure the services of a strong man as nurse, instead of this apparently frail woman. He proposed, the morning after her arrival, going for one. “No,” she returned, with quiet resolution: “I can do better for him than any man, if you will help me when he needs to be moved or lifted.” The poor man now had to reap the results of the terrible strain through which he had so recently passed, for he went alarmingly near the borders of the other world. He was delirious most of the time, and talked almost incessantly of Sister Angela and some one else, whom he called his “darling;” though his mutterings were so indistinct and incoherent that they could not make much sense of what he said. “To whom does he refer?” Sister Angela asked of his mother one day, when he called more than usual for his “darling.” Madame Winthrop flushed at the question, for she well knew to whom he referred, and her conscience had been busy with its upbraidings as she listened to her son’s ravings. But of course she was not going to tell family secrets to a stranger, and so evaded a direct reply. “He is betrothed to Miss Rochester,” she said, briefly. The cup from which Sister Angela had been feeding her patient slipped from her fingers just then, but fortunately it dropped upon a hassock and made no noise. “Miss Sadie Rochester, the young lady whom the other nurse took care of when you were here before,” she explained. “Miss Sadie Rochester!” repeated the nun. “Yes; did not the nurse tell you her name?” asked madam.