This was too much for the Shuttleworth kitchenmaid.  The obligations, she considered, were all on the side of Creeper Cottage, and she retreated in amazement and anger to the kitchen, put on her hat and mackintosh, and at once departed, regardless of the rain and the consequences, through two miles of dripping lanes to Symford Hall.  What would have happened to her there if she had been discovered by Tussie I do not know, but I imagine it would have been something bad.  She was saved, however, by his being in bed, clutched by the throat by a violent cold; and there he lay helpless, burning and shivering and throbbing, the pains of his body increased a hundredfold by the distraction of his mind about Priscilla.  Why, Tussie asked himself over and over again, had she looked so strange the night before?  Why had she gone starving to bed?  What was she doing to-day?  Was the kitchenmaid taking proper care of her?  Was she keeping warm and dry this shocking weather?  Had she slept comfortably the first night in her little home?  Poor Tussie.  It is a grievous thing to love any one too much; a grievous, wasteful, paralyzing thing; a tumbling of the universe out of focus, a bringing of the whole world down to the mean level of one desire, a shutting out of wider, more beautiful feelings, a wrapping of one’s self in a thick garment of selfishness, outside which all the dear, tender, modest, everyday affections and friendships, the wholesome, ordinary loves, the precious loves of use and wont, are left to shiver and grow cold.  Tussie’s mother sat outside growing very cold indeed.  Her heart was stricken within her.  She, most orderly of women, did not in the least mind, so occupied was she with deeper cares, that her household was in rebellion, her cook who had been with her practically all her life leaving because she had been commanded by Tussie, before he had to fall back on the kitchenmaid, to proceed forthwith to Creeper Cottage and stay there indefinitely; her kitchenmaid, also a valued functionary, leaving; Bryce, Tussie’s servant who took such care of him and was so clever in sickness, gone suddenly in his indignation at having to go at all,—­all these things no longer mattered.  Nor did it matter that the coming of age festivities were thrown into hopeless confusion by Tussie’s illness, that the guests must all be telegraphed to and put off, that the whole village would be aghast at such a disappointment, that all her plans and preparations had been wasted.  As the first day and night of illness dragged slowly past she grew to be nothing but one great ache of yearning over her sick boy, a most soul-rending yearning to do what she knew was for ever impossible, to put her arms so close round him, so close, so carefully, so tenderly, that nothing, no evil, no pain, could get through that clasp of love to hurt him any more.

“Why don’t you take better care of your only son?” said the doctor grimly after he had seen Tussie that evening, who by that time was in a very pitiable condition.