‘Won’t you wait till your mother comes, or put it off till tomorrow?’ said Mrs. Pettifer, alarmed.  ’You’ll hardly be back in time for dinner, if you get talking to Mrs. Crewe.  And you’ll have to pass by your husband’s, you know; and yesterday, you were so afraid of seeing him.’

’O, Robert will be shut up at the office now, if he’s not gone out of the town.  I must go—­I feel I must be doing something for some one—­not be a mere useless log any longer.  I’ve been reading about that wonderful Henry Martyn; he’s just like Mr. Tryan—­wearing himself out for other people, and I sit thinking of nothing but myself.  I must go.  Good-bye; I shall be back soon.’

She ran off before Mrs. Pettifer could utter another word of dissuasion, leaving the good woman in considerable anxiety lest this new impulse of Janet’s should frustrate all precautions to save her from a sudden shock.

Janet having paid her visit in Butcher Lane, turned again into Orchard Street on her way to Mrs. Crewe’s, and was thinking, rather sadly, that her mother’s economical housekeeping would leave no abundant surplus to be sent to the hungry Lakins, when she saw Mr. Pilgrim in advance of her on the other side of the street.  He was walking at a rapid pace, and when he reached Dempster’s door he turned and entered without knocking.

Janet was startled.  Mr. Pilgrim would never enter in that way unless there were some one very ill in the house.  It was her husband; she felt certain of it at once.  Something had happened to him.  Without a moment’s pause, she ran across the street, opened the door, and entered.  There was no one in the passage.  The dining-room door was wide open—­no one was there.  Mr. Pilgrim, then, was already up-stairs.  She rushed up at once to Dempster’s room—­her own room.  The door was open, and she paused in pale horror at the sight before her, which seemed to stand out only with the more appalling distinctness because the noonday light was darkened to twilight in the chamber.

Two strong nurses were using their utmost force to hold Dempster in bed, while the medical assistant was applying a sponge to his head, and Mr. Pilgrim was busy adjusting some apparatus in the background.  Dempster’s face was purple and swollen, his eyes dilated, and fixed with a look of dire terror on something he seemed to see approaching him from the iron closet.  He trembled violently, and struggled as if to jump out of bed.

‘Let me go, let me go,’ he said in a loud, hoarse whisper; ’she’s coming ... she’s cold ... she’s dead ... she’ll strangle me with her black hair.  Ah!’ he shrieked aloud, ’her hair is all serpents ... they’re black serpents ... they hiss ... they hiss . .. let me go . . . let me go . . . she wants to drag me with her cold arms ... her arms are serpents ... they are great white serpents ... they’ll twine round me ... she wants to drag me into the cold water ... her bosom is cold ... it is black ... it is all serpents ...’