nts. This prudent gentleman ventured
to assert that Mr Clinton had caught cold and had something wrong with
his lungs. Then, promising to send medicine and come again next day,
went off on his rounds. Mr Clinton grew worse; he became delirious. When
his wife, smoothing his pillow, asked him how he felt, he looked at her
with glassy eyes.

'Lor' bless you!' he muttered, 'on a 'eavy day we'll 'ave 'alf a dozen,
easy.'

'What's this he's talking about?' asked the doctor, next day.

''E was serving on a jury the day before yesterday, and my opinion is
that it's got on 'is brain,' answered Mrs Clinton.

'Oh, that's nothing. You needn't worry about that. I daresay it'll turn
to clothes or religion before he's done. People talk of funny things
when they're in that state. He'll probably think he's got two hundred
pairs of trousers or a million pounds a year.'

A couple of days later the doctor came to the final conclusion that it
was a case of typhoid, and pronounced Mr Clinton very ill. He was
indeed; he lay for days, between life and death, on his back, looking at
people with dull, unknowing eyes, clutching feebly at the bed-clothes.
And for hours he would mutter strange things to himself so quietly that
one could not hear. But at last Dame Nature and the Scotch doctor
conquered the microbes, and Mr Clinton became better.

VII

One day Mrs Clinton was talking to a neighbour in the bedroom, the
patient was so quiet that they thought him asleep.

'Yes, I've 'ad a time with 'im, I can tell you,' said Mrs Clinton. 'No
one knows what I've gone through.'

'Well, I must say,' said the friend, 'you haven't spared yourself;
you've nursed him like a professional nurse.'

Mrs Clinton crossed her hands over her stomach and looked at her husband
with self-satisfaction. But Mr Clinton was awake, staring in front of
him with wide-open, fixed eyes; various thoughts confusedly ran through
his head.

'Isn't 'e looking strange?' whispered Mrs Clinton.

The two women kept silence, watching him.

'Amy, are you there?' asked Mr Clinton, suddenly, without turning his
eyes.

'Yes, dear. Is there anything you want?'

Mr Clinton did not reply for several minutes; the women waited in
silence.

'Bring me a Bible, Amy,' he said at last.

'A Bible, Jimmy?' asked Mrs Clinton, in astonishment.

'Yes, dear!'

She looked anxiously at her friend.

'Oh, I do 'ope the delirium isn't coming on again,' she whispered, and,
pretending t