But the poor traveller paused here barely for a minute, and then went on, stumbling through the mud, striking his ill-covered feet against the rough stones in the dark, sweating in his weakness, almost tottering at times, and calculating whether his remaining strength would serve to carry him home.

He had almost forgotten the bishop and his wife before at last he grasped the wicket gate leading to his own door.
"Oh, mamma, here is papa!" "But where is the cart?
I did not hear the wheels," said Mrs.
Crawley.
"Oh, mamma, I think papa is ill." Then the wife took her drooping husband by both arms and strove to look him in the face.

"He has walked all the way, and he is ill," said Jane.
"No, my dear, I am very tired, but not ill.

Let me sit down, and give me some bread and tea, and I shall recover myself." Then Mrs.
Crawley, from some secret hoard, got him a small modicum of spirits, and gave him meat and tea, and he was docile; and, obeying her behests, allowed himself to be taken to his bed.
"I do not think the bishop will send for me again," he said, as she tucked the clothes around him..