“I will be at the parsonage some time to-day.  You can return without me, Stukely.”

“Dr Mayhew,” I exclaimed, “I entreat, I implore you not to trifle with me!  I can bear any thing but that.  Tell me the worst, and I will not shrink from it.  You must not think to deceive me.  You are satisfied that there is no hope for us; I am sure you are, and you will not be just and say so.”

“I am satisfied of no such thing,” answered the doctor quickly.  “I should be a fool, a madman, to speak so rashly.  There is every reason to hope, I do believe, at present.  Tell me one thing—­does her father know of it?”

“He does not.”

“Then let it still be kept a secret from him.  Her very life may depend upon his ignorance.  She must be kept perfectly composed—­no agitation—­no frightened faces around her.  But I will go with you, and see what can be done.  I’ll warrant it is nothing at all, and that puss is well over her fright before we get to her.”

Again the doctor smiled unhealthfully, and tried, awkwardly enough, to appear wholly free from apprehension, whilst he was most uncomfortable with the amount of it.

The physician remained for half an hour with his patient, and rejoined me in the garden when he quitted her.  He looked serious and thoughtful.

“There is no hope, then?” I exclaimed immediately.

“Tush, boy,” he answered; “quiet—­quiet.  She will do well, I hope—­eventually.  She has fever on her now, which must be brought down.  While that remains there will be anxiety, as there must be always—­when it leaves her, I trust she will be well again.  Do you know if she has undergone any unusual physical exertion?”

“I do not.”

“I confess to you that I do not like this accident; but it is impossible to speak positively now.  Whilst the fever lasts, symptoms may be confounded and mistaken.  I will watch her closely.”

“Have you seen her father?”

“I have; but I have told him nothing further than he knew.  He believes her slightly indisposed.  I have calmed him, and have told him not to have the child disturbed.  You will see to that?”

“I will.”

“And now mark me, Stukely.  I expect that you will behave like a man, and as you ought.  We cannot keep Fairman ignorant of this business.  Should it go on, as it may—­in spite of every thing we can do—­he must know it.  You have seen sufficient of his character to judge how he will receive the information which it may be my painful lot to take to him.  I think of it with dread.  It has been my pleasure to stand your friend—­you must prove mine.  I shall expect you to act with fortitude and calmness, and not, by weakness and self-indulgence, to increase the pain that will afflict the parent’s heart—­for it will be sufficient for Fairman to know only what has happened to give up every hope and consolation.  You must be firm on his account and chiefly for the sake of the dear girl, who should not see your face without a smile of confidence and love upon it.  Do you hear me?  I will let you weep now,” he continued, noticing the tears which prevented my reply, “provided that you dry your eyes, and keep them so from this time forward.  Do you hear me?”