it in, had escaped a book, and the servant had laid the book on the
top of the knapsack. The Archdeacon took it up.

"Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici and Urn Burial. On the flyleaf,
'Paul Savelli.' An undergraduate, I should say, on a walking tour."

Miss Winwood took the book from his hands--a little cheap reprint.
"I'm glad," she said.

"Why, my dear Ursula?"

"I'm very fond of Sir Thomas Browne, myself," she replied.

Presently the doctor came and made his examination. He shook a grave
head. "Pneumonia. And he has got it bad. Perhaps a touch of the sun
as well." The housekeeper smiled discreetly. "Looks half-starved,
too. I'll send up the ambulance at once and get him to the cottage
hospital."

Miss Winwood, a practical woman, was aware that the doctor gave wise
counsel. But she looked at Paul and hesitated. Paul's destiny,
though none knew it, hung in the balance. "I disapprove altogether
of the cottage hospital," she said.

"Eh?" said the doctor.

The Archdeacon raised his eyebrows. "My dear Ursula, I thought you
had made the Morebury Cottage Hospital the model of its kind."

"Its kind is not for people who carry about Sir Thomas Browne in