“No, no, Sarah!  I can’t do that!  I am prepared; I must preach!  I’ll get a nap and then I’ll feel better,” he said.

Mrs. Strong shook her head, but Philip was determined.  He slept a little, ate a little lunch, and when the time of service came, he went up to the church again.  As his habit was, just before the hour of beginning, he went into the little room at the side of the platform to pray by himself.  When he came out and began the service, no one could have told from his manner that he was suffering physically.  Even Mrs. Strong, who was watching him anxiously, felt relieved to see how quiet and composed he was.

He had commenced his sermon and had been preaching with great eloquence for ten minutes, when he felt a strange dizziness and a pain in his side, that made him catch his breath and clutch the side of the pulpit to keep from falling.  It passed away and he went on.  It was only a slight hesitation, and no one remarked anything out of the way.  For five minutes he spoke with increasing power and feeling.  The church was filled.  It was very quiet.  Suddenly, without any warning, he threw up his arms, uttered a cry of half-suppressed agony, and then fell over backward.  A thrill of excitement ran through the audience.  For a moment no one moved; then every one rose.  The men in the front pews rushed up to the platform.  Mrs. Strong was already there.  Philip’s head was raised.  Philip’s old friend, the surgeon, was in the crowd, and he at once examined him.  He was not dead, and the doctor at once directed the proper movement for his removal from the church.  As he was being carried out into the air he revived and was able to speak.

“Take me home,” he whispered to his wife, who hung over him in a terror as great as her love for him at that moment.  A carriage was called and he was taken home.  The doctor remained until Philip was fully conscious.

“It was very warm and I was very tired, and I fainted, eh, doctor?  First time I ever did such a thing in my life.  I am ashamed; I spoiled the service.”  Philip uttered this slowly and feebly, when at last he had recovered enough to knew where he was.

The doctor looked at him suspiciously.  “You never fainted before, eh?  Well, if I were you I would take care not to faint again.  Take good care of him, Mrs. Strong.  He needs rest.  Milton could spare a dozen bad men like me better than one like the Dominie.”

“Doctor!” cried Mrs. Strong, in sudden fear, “what is the matter?  Is this serious?”

“Not at all.  But men like your husband are in need of watching.  Take good care of him.”

“Good care of him!  Doctor, he will not mind me!  I wanted him to stay at home to-night, but he wouldn’t.”

“Then put a chain and padlock on him, and hold him in!” growled the surgeon.  He prescribed a medicine and went away assuring Mrs. Strong that Philip would feel much better in the morning.

The surgeon’s prediction came true.  Philip found himself weak the next day, but able to get about.  In reply to numerous calls of inquiry for the minister, Mrs. Strong was able to report that he was much better.  About eleven o’clock, when the postman called, Philip was in his study lying on his lounge.