“Yes,” I faltered.

“And will you heed me?”

“I will try,” I answered, as firmly as I might, with every hope within me crushed and killed by the words which he had spoken.

“Very well.  Then let us say no more, until we see what Providence is doing for us.”

The fever of Ellen did not abate that day.  The doctor did not leave the house, but remained with the incumbent—­not, as he told his friend, because he thought it necessary so to do, but to keep the word which he had given the night before—­viz., to pass the day with him.  He was sorry that he had been deprived of their company at his own abode, but he could make himself quite comfortable where he was.  About eleven o’clock at night the doctor thought it strange that Robin had not brought his pony over, and wondered what had happened.

“Shall we send to enquire?” asked Mr Fairman.

“Oh no!” was the quick answer, “that never can be worth while.  We’ll wait a little longer.”

At twelve the doctor spoke again.  “Well, he must think of moving; but he was very tired, and did not care to walk.”

“Why not stay here, then?  I cannot see, Mayhew, why you should be so uneasy at the thought of sleeping out.  Come, take your bed with us for once.”

“Eh?—­well—­it’s very late—­suppose I do.”

Mayhew had not been shrewd enough, and, with his ready acquiescence, the minister learned all.

I did not go to bed.  My place was at her door, and there I lingered till the morning.  The physician had paid his last visit shortly after midnight, and had given orders to the nurse who waited on the patient, to call him up if necessary, but on no account to disturb the lady if she slept or was composed.  The gentle sufferer did not require his services, or, if she did, was too thoughtful and too kind to make it known.  Early in the morning Doctor Mayhew came—­the fever had increased—­and she had experienced a new attack of haemoptysis the moment she awoke.  The doctor stepped softly from her room, and deep anxiety was written on his brow.  I followed him with eagerness.  He put his finger to his lips, and said, “Remember, Stukely.”

“Yes, I will—­I do; but, is she better?”

“No—­but I am not discouraged yet.  Every thing depends upon extreme tranquillity.  No one must see her.  Dear me, dear me! what is to be said to Fairman, should he ask?”

“Is she placid?” I enquired.

“She is an angel, Stukely,” said the good doctor, pressing my hands, and passing on.  When we met at breakfast, the incumbent looked hard at me, and seemed to gather something from my pale and careworn face.  When Mayhew came, full of bustle, assumed, and badly too, as the shallowest observer could perceive, he turned to him, and in a quiet voice asked “if his child was much worse since the previous night.”

“Not much,” said Mayhew.  “She will be better in a short time, I trust.”