she convinced that both she and the dog were wrong in their
diagnosis. The young man's face was deadly white, his cheeks gaunt.
It was evidently a grave matter. For a moment or so she had a qualm
of fear lest he might be dead. She bent down, took him in her
capable grip and composed his inert body decently, and placed the
knapsack he was wearing beneath his head. The faintly beating heart
proved him to be alive, but her touch on his brow discovered fever.
Kneeling by his side, she wiped his lips with her handkerchief, and
gave herself up to the fraction of a minute's contemplation of the
most beautiful youth she had ever seen. So there he lay, a new
Endymion, while the most modern of Dianas hung over him, stricken
with great wonderment at his perfection.

In this romantic attitude was she surprised, first by the coachman
of the landau and pair as he swung round the bend of the drive, and
then by the Archdeacon, who leaned over the door of the carriage.
Miss Winwood sprang to her feet; the coachman pulled up, and the
Archdeacon alighted.

"My dear Uncle Edward"--she wrung his hand--"I'm so glad to see
you. Do help me grapple with an extraordinary situation."

The Archdeacon smiled humorously. He was a spare man of seventy,
with thin, pointed, clean-shaven face, and clear blue eyes like Miss
Winwood's. "If there's a situation, my dear Ursula, with which you
can't grapple," said he, "it must indeed be extraordinary."

She narrated what had occurred, and together they bent over the
unconscious youth. "I would suggest," said she, "that we put him
into the carriage, drive him up to the house, and send for Dr.