Miss Combe smiled and held out her hand to Bradley, who took it gently.

‘When you came in,’ she said, ‘I was half dreaming. I thought I was a little child again, playing with brother Tom in the old churchyard at Taviton. Tom has only just gone out; he has been here all the morning.’ Said brother Tom, the unwashed apostle of the Hall of Science, had left unmistakable traces of his presence, for a strong odour of bad tobacco pervaded the room.

‘It seems like old times,’ proceeded the little lady, with a sad smile, ‘to be sick, and to be visited by a clergyman. I shall die in the odour of sanctity after all.’

‘You must not talk of dying,’ cried Alma.

‘You will soon be all right again.’

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