“May I see her?” enquired the father in the same soft tone.

“Not now—­by and by perhaps—­I hope to-morrow.  This is a sudden attack—­you see—­any excitement may prolong it—­it wouldn’t be well to give a chance away.  Don’t you see that, Fairman?”

“Yes,” said the minister, and from that moment made no further mention of his daughter during breakfast.  The meal was soon dispatched.  Mr Fairman retired to his study—­and the doctor prepared for his departure.  He promised to return in the afternoon.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed, as he took leave of me at the gate, “that Fairman remains so very unsuspicious.  This is not like him.  I expected to find him more inquisitive.”

“I am surprised,” I answered; “but it is most desirable that he should continue so.”

“Yes—­yes—­by all means—­for the present at all events.”

Throughout the day there was no improvement in the patient’s symptoms.  The physician came according to his promise, and again at night.  He slept at the parsonage for the second time.  The minister betrayed no wonder at this unusual act, showed no agitation, made no importunate enquiries.  He asked frequently during the day if any amendment had taken place; but always in a gentle voice, and without any other reference to her illness.  As often as the doctor came, he repeated his wish to visit his dear child, but, receiving for answer “that he had better not at present,” he retired to his study with a tremulous sigh, but offering no remonstrance.

The doctor went early to rest.  He had no inclination to spend the evening with his friend, whom he hardly cared to see until he could meet him as the messenger of good tidings.  I had resolved to hover, as I did before, near the mournful chamber in which she lay; and there I kept a weary watch until my eyes refused to serve me longer, and I was forced against my will, and for the sake of others, to yield my place and crawl to my repose.  As I walked stealthily through the house, and on tiptoe, fearful of disturbing one beloved inmate even by a breath—­I passed the incumbent’s study.  The door was open, and a glare of light broke from it, and stretched across the passage.  I hesitated for a moment—­then listened—­but, hearing nothing, pursued my way.  It was very strange.  The clock had just before struck three, and the minister, it was supposed, had been in bed since midnight.  “His lamp is burning,” thought I—­“he has forgotten it.”  I was on the point of entering the apartment—­when I was deterred and startled by his voice.  My hand was already on the door, and I looked in.  Before me, on his knees, with his back towards me, was my revered friend—­his hands clasped, and his head raised in supplication.  He was in his dress of day, and had evidently not yet visited his pillow.  I waited, and he spoke—­