In truth she had made her worse, and when Dr Richards came to see her that afternoon, she was quite delirious.  He shook his head, and declared that she had brain fever, and that the utmost quiet and freedom from all excitement were necessary for her.  Poor Mr Prothero was beside himself, and the whole household was in great consternation.  Serious illness had never visited either the farm or the vicarage before, and none of the Prothero family knew what it was.  Not so Gladys, however.  She did not wait to be directed or ordered, but took her post as nurse by her dear mistress’s bedside.  To her the doctor gave his directions, to her Mr Prothero turned for information, to her Owen came for comfort; and even Mrs Jonathan, who had scarcely ever spoken to her before, looked to her as the only hope in this time of uncertainty.

‘I have seen all kind of fevers,’ she would say to one and another as they questioned her, ’worse than this, and with God’s grace the dear mistress will recover.  I am not afraid to sit up alone with her, oh, no!  It is better not to have too many in the room at once.  Do not be uneasy, master, the delirium is not very bad.  Yes, Mr Owen, you can do better than any one else, because you are calmer.  No, ma’am, it is not an infectious fever—­you need not be afraid,’ and so from one to another at intervals she went, giving hope and comfort.

During all that night and several successive ones, Gladys sat up with her beloved mistress.  It was she who listened to her disturbed, delirious talk about Netta, and tried to console her; she who read the Bible to her, and prayed with and for her during the intervals of reason, and she who gave her all her medicines and nourishment.

Poor Mr Prothero could do nothing but wander from the fields to the house, and the house back again to the fields, followed by his brother like his shadow, who strove to comfort him in vain.  Mrs Jonathan made jellies, and did her best.  Owen was gentle and tender as a girl, and helped to nurse his mother with a love and care that Gladys could scarcely understand in the lighthearted, wild sailor.

Before the end of the week, they wrote to summon Rowland, for Mrs Prothero’s life was despaired of, and great was the anxiety and terror of all, lest he should come too late.

’Pray for her, Mr Owen, pray for her.  There is nothing else of any avail at such a time as this,’ would Gladys say in answer to the young man’s entreating glance.

’If I were as good as you I could, Gladys.  Oh, God! spare my beloved mother!’ he would reply.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE CURATE.