“I fear so.”

“Oh, my children!” said poor Mrs. Vavasour.

“Will five pounds help the poor fellow?” said Scoutbush.

“How far off is it?” asked Elsley.

“Unpleasantly near.  I was going to advise you to move at once.”

“You hear what they are saying?” asked Valencia of Frank.

“Yes, I hear it,” said Frank, in a quiet meaning tone.

Valencia thought that he was half pleased with the news.  Then she thought him afraid; for he did not stir.

“You will go instantly, of course?”

“Of course I shall.  Good-bye!  Do not be afraid.  It is not infectious.”

“Afraid?  And a soldier’s sister?” said Valencia, with a toss of her beautiful head, by way of giving force to her somewhat weak logic.

Frank left the room instantly, and met Thurnall in the passage.

“Well, Headley, it’s here before we sent for it, as bad luck usually is.”

“I know.  Let me go!  Where is it?  Whose house?” asked Frank in an excited tone.

“Humph!” said Thurnall, looking intently at him, “that is just what I shall not tell you.”

“Not tell me?”

“No, you are too pale, Headley.  Go back and get two or three glasses of wine, and then we will talk of it.”

“What do you mean?  I must go instantly!  It is my duty,—­my parishioner!”

“Look here, Headley!  Are you and I to work together in this business, or are we not?”

“Why not, in heaven’s name?”

“Then I want you, not for cure, but for prevention.  You can do them no good when they have once got it.  You may prevent dozens from having it in the next four-and-twenty hours, if you will be guided by me.”

“But my business is with their souls, Thurnall.”

“Exactly;—­to give them the consolations of religion, as they call it.  You will give them to the people who have not taken it.  You may bring them safe through it by simply keeping up their spirits; while if you waste your time on poor dying wretches—­”

“Thurnall, you must not talk so!  I will do all you ask:  but my place is at the death-bed, as well as elsewhere.  These perishing souls are in my care.”

“And how do you know, pray, that they are perishing?” answered Tom, with something very like a sneer.  “And if they were, do you honestly believe that any talk of yours can change in five minutes a character which has been forming for years, or prevent a man’s going where he ought to go,—­ which, I suppose, is the place to which he deserves to go?”

“I do,” said Frank, firmly.

“Well.  It is a charitable and hopeful creed.  My great dread was, lest you should kill the poor wretches before their time, by adding to the fear of cholera the fear of hell.  I caught the Methodist parson at that work an hour ago, took him by the shoulders and shot him out into the street.  But, my dear Headley” (and Tom lowered his voice to a whisper), “wherever poor Tom Beer deserved to go to, he is gone to it already.  He has been dead this twenty minutes.”