He put the paper aside, and, without his overcoat, went out into the cold, sleety rain, which was falling heavily.  It chilled him at once, but he did not think of it as he went through the grounds and gardens and fields of the Crompton Place, where everything was in perfect order and bespoke the wealth of the owner.  It was a fair heritage, and he could not give it up without a pang.  He never knew how many miles he walked back and forth across the fields and through the woods.  Nor did he know that he was cold, until he returned to the house with drenched garments and a chill which he felt to his bones.  He had taken a heavy cold, and staid in-doors the next morning, shivering before the grate, which he told Peter to heap with coal until it was hot as—.  He didn’t finish the sentence, but added, “I’m infernally cold,—­influenza, I reckon, but I won’t have any nostrums brought to me.  All I want is a good fire.”

Peter heaped up the fire until the room seemed to him like a furnace, and then left the young man alone with his thoughts and his temptation, which was assailing him a second time, stronger than before.  He firmly believed the devil was there, urging him to burn the paper, and held several spirited conversations with him, pro and con, the cons finally gaining the victory.

Late in the afternoon Jack’s telegram was brought to him.  “We’ll be home this evening.”

“That means seven o’clock, and dinner at halfpast seven,” he said to Peter.  “Send Sam with the carriage, and see that there are fires in their rooms.”

He had given his orders and then sat down to decide what he would do.

“I know the Old Harry is here with me, but his company is better than none,” he said, wishing he had a shawl, he was so cold, with the room at 90 degrees.

The short day drew to a close.  Peter came in and lighted the gas, and put more coal on the grate, and said Sam had gone to the station.  Half an hour later Howard heard the whistle of the train, and then the sound of wheels coming up the avenue.

“Now or never!” was whispered in his ear, and his hand, with the paper in it, went toward the fire.

There was a fierce struggle, and Howard felt that he was really fighting with an unseen foe; then his hand came back with the paper in it, safe except for a second scorch on one side.

“By the great eternal, it is never!  I swear it!” he said, as his arm dropped beside him and the paper fell to the floor.

There was a sound below of people entering the house.  They had come, and he heard Eloise’s voice as she passed his door on her way to her room with Amy.  Was Jack there too? he was wondering—­when Jack came in, gay and breezy, but startled when he met the woe-begone face turned toward him.

“By George! old man,” he said, “Peter told me you were shut up with a cold, but I didn’t expect this.  Why, you look like a ghost, and are sweating like a butcher, and no wonder.  The thermometer must be a hundred.  What’s the matter?”