Lucy and her father soon appeared.  Chester met them below and helped the sick man up, along the deck, and down the gang-way to the tender, where he found a seat.  Lucy followed, stewards carrying their hand baggage.  From their new position they looked up to the steamer.  How big it was!

The day was beautifully warm.  Well wrapped in his coat, the father rested easily, watching with some interest the busy scene around him.  He being among the last to leave the liner, they were soon ready to be off.  The gang-way was drawn in again, and the tender steamed away towards the inner harbor.  The big ship weighed its anchor, then proceeded on its course to Liverpool, carrying away its little world of a week’s acquaintance, to which Chester and Lucy waved farewell.

Queenstown, in terraced ranks, now rose before them.  The pier was soon reached, from which most of the travelers continued their journey by rail.  The minister and his party, however, took passage again on a small boat for Cork.  Everything being new to Chester, and the father being quite unable to do anything, the initiative, at least, rested on Lucy.  With Chester’s help, she managed quite well.

For an hour they sailed on the placid waters of the harbor and up into the river Lee.  The wooded hills, on either hand, dotted with farm-houses and villas, presented a pleasing picture.  The boat drew up to a landing at St. Patrick’s Bridge, where Uncle Gilbert met them, greatly surprised and alarmed at his brother’s condition.

Carriages were waiting.  Chester was introduced by Lucy in a way which led to the inference that he was a particular friend of the family picked up, perhaps, in their time of need.  Bag and baggage was piled in besides them and they drove away through the streets of Cork and into the suburbs.  Slowly the horse climbed the hill, but in a short time they were at Uncle Gilbert’s home, one of the beautiful ones situated among the green of rolling hillside and the deeper green of trees.

There was another warm welcome by Aunt Sarah, who took immediate and personal charge of the sick man.

“It’s a break-down through overwork,” she declared.  “You Americans live at such fever heat that it is no wonder you have no nerves.  They’re burned out of you.  But it’s rest only he wants, poor man; and here’s where he’ll get it.  Don’t you worry, Lucy.”

Aunt Sarah’s masterful treatment of cases such as these took much care and anxiety from them all.  Away from the bustle and roar of hurrying humanity and traffic, resting amid the soothing green, and breathing the mild air of the country; the minister ought surely to get well again soon.

He would not go to bed, but chose to sit in a big chair with a pillow under his head, looking out of the upstairs window which afforded a view of the town.  The sun came in rather strongly during the afternoon and the father motioned Lucy to partly draw the blind.  She did so, then drew a stool to his chair and seated herself near him.  He placed his hands on her head, patted it caressingly, smiled at her, but said nothing.  It was still difficult for him to speak.