And now came for that household at Wimperfield a period of agonising trouble and fear. The boy’s illness developed into an acute attack of rheumatic fever, and for three dreadful days and nights his life trembled in the balance. Not once did Ida enter her husband’s room during that awful period of fear. She could not steel herself to look upon the man whose sin, or whose folly, had brought this evil on her beloved one. ‘My murdered boy,’ she kept repeating to herself. Even on her knees, when she tried to pray, humbly and meekly appealing to the Fountain of mercy and grace–even then, while she knelt with bowed head and folded hands, those awful words flashed into her mind. Her murdered boy.