“Listen to me, dearest Stukely.  It was my duty to acquaint you with this circumstance, and I have done so, relying on your manliness and love.  You have already guessed what I am about to add.  My poor father”—­her lips quivered as she said the word—­“he must know nothing for the present.  It would be cruel unnecessarily to alarm him.  His heart would break.  He MUST be kept in ignorance of this.  You shall see Mayhew; he will, I trust, remove our fears.  Should he confirm them, he can communicate to papa.”  Again she paused, and her tears trickled to her lips, which moved convulsively.

“Do not speak, my beloved,” I exclaimed.  “Compose yourself.  We will return home.  Be it as you wish.  I will see Mayhew immediately, and bring him with me to the parsonage.  Seek rest—­avoid exertion.”

I know not what conversation followed this.  I know not how we reached our home again.  I have no recollection of it.  Three times upon our road was the cough repeated, and, as at first, it was accompanied by that hideous sight.  In vain she turned her head away to escape detection.  It was impossible to deceive my keen and piercing gaze.  I grew pale as death as I beheld on each occasion the frightful evidence of disease; but the maiden pressed my hand, and smiled sweetly and encouragingly to drive away my fears.  She did not speak—­I had forbidden her to do so; but her looks—­full of tenderness and love—­told how all her thoughts were for her lover—­all her anxiety and care.

At my request, as soon as we arrived at home, she went to bed.  I saw the incumbent—­acquainted him with her sudden illness—­taking care to keep its nature secret—­and then ran for my life to Dr Mayhew’s residence.  The very appearance of blood was to me, as it is always to the common and uninformed observer, beyond all doubt confirmatory of the worst suspicions—­the harbinger of certain death.  There is something horrible in its sight, presented in such a form; but not for itself do we shrink as we behold it—­not for what it is, but for what it awfully proclaims.  I was frantic and breathless when I approached the doctor’s house, and half stupified when I at length stood before him.

I told my errand quickly.

The doctor attempted instantly to mislead me, but he failed in his design.  I saw, in spite of the forced smile that would not rest upon his lips, how unexpectedly and powerfully this news had come upon him—­how seriously he viewed it.  He could not remove my miserable convictions by his own abortive efforts at cheerfulness and unconcern.  He moved to his window, and strove to whistle, and to speak of the haymakers who were busy in the fields, and of the weather; but the more he feigned to regard my information as undeserving of alarm, the more convinced I grew that deadly mischief had already taken place.  There was an air about him that showed him ill at ease; and, in the midst of all his quietude and indifference, he betrayed an anxiety to appear composed, unwarranted by an ordinary event.  Had the illness been trifling indeed, he could have afforded to be more serious and heedful.