And all this time no one thought to call a physician, until Mr. Livingstone himself at last suggested it.  At first he had felt no interest whatever in his daughter-in-law, but with him force of habit was everything, and when she no longer came among them, he missed her—­missed her languid steps upon the stairs and her childish voice in the parlor.  At last it one day occurred to him to visit her.  She was sleeping when he entered the room, but he could see there had been a fearful change since last he looked upon her, and without a word concerning his intentions, he walked to the kitchen, ordering one of his servants to start forthwith for the physician, whose residence was a few miles distant.

Mrs. Livingstone was in the front parlor when he returned, in company with Doctor Gordon, and immediately her avaricious spirit asked who would pay the bill, and why was he sent for.  Mabel did not need him—­she was only babyish and spleeny—­and so she told the physician, who, however, did not agree with her.  He did not say that Mabel would die, but he thought so, for his experienced eye saw in her infallible signs of the disease which had stricken down both her parents, and to which, from her birth, she had been a prey.  Mabel guessed as much from his manner, and when again he visited her, she asked him plainly what he thought.

She was young—­a bride—­surrounded apparently by everything which could make her happy, and the physician hesitated, answering her evasively, until she said, “Do not fear to tell me truly, for I want to die.  Oh, I long to die,” she continued, passionately clasping her thin white hands together.

“That is an unusual wish in one so young,” answered the physician, “but to be plain with you, Mrs. Livingstone, I think consumption too deeply seated to admit of your recovery.  You may be better, but never well.  Your disease is hereditary, and has been coming on too long.”

“It is well,” was Mabel’s only answer, as she turned wearily upon her side and hid her face in the pillows.

For a long time she lay there, thinking, weeping, and thinking again, of the noisome grave through which she must pass, and from which she instinctively shrank, it was so dark, so cold, and dreary.  But Mabel had trusted in One who she knew would go with her down into the lone valley—­whose arm she felt would uphold her as she crossed the dark, rolling stream of death; and as if her frail bark were already safely moored upon the shores of the eternal river, she looked back dreamily upon the world she had left, and as she saw what she felt would surely be, she again murmured through her tears, “It is well.”