Mr. Dinsmore groaned aloud, and no longer resisted the physician’s efforts to lead him from the room.  “It is the delirium of fever,” Dr. Barton said, in answer to the father’s agonized look of inquiry; “she will recover her reason—­if she lives.”

The last words were added in a lower, quicker tone.

Mr. Dinsmore covered his face, and uttered a groan of agony.

“Doctor, is there no hope?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Do you wish me to tell you precisely what I think?” asked the physician.

“I do!  I do! let me know the worst!” was the quick, passionate rejoinder.

“Then, Mr. Dinsmore, I will be frank with you.  Had you returned one week ago, I think she might have been saved; possibly, even had you been here yesterday morning, while she was still in possession of her reason; but now, I see not one ray of hope.  I never knew one so low to recover.”

He started, as Mr. Dinsmore raised his face again, so pale, so haggard, so grief-stricken had it become in that one moment.

“Doctor,” he said in a hollow, broken voice, “save my child, and you may take all I am worth.  I cannot live without her.”

“I will do all I can,” replied the physician in a tone of deep compassion, “but the Great Physician alone can save her.  We must look to him.”

“Doctor,” said Mr. Dinsmore hoarsely, “if that child dies, I must go to my grave with the brand of Cain upon me, for I have killed her by my cruelty; and oh! doctor, she is the very light of my eyes—­the joy of my heart!  How can I give her up?  Save her, doctor, and you will be entitled to my everlasting gratitude.”

“Surely, my dear sir, you are reproaching yourself unjustly,” said the physician soothingly, replying to the first part of Mr. Dinsmore’s remark.  “I have heard you spoken of as a very fond father, and have formed the same opinion from my own observation, and your little girl’s evident affection for you.”

“And I was, but in one respect.  I insisted upon obedience, even when my commands came in collision with her conscientious scruples; and she was firm; she had the spirit of a martyr—­and I was very severe in my efforts to subdue what I called wilfulness and obstinacy,” said the distracted father in a voice often, scarcely audible from emotion.  “I thought I was right, but now I see that I was fearfully wrong.”

“There is life yet, Mr. Dinsmore,” remarked the doctor compassionately; “and though human skill can do no more, he who raised the dead child of the ruler of the synagogue, and restored the son of the widow of Nain to her arms, can give back your child to your embrace; let me entreat you to go to him, my dear sir.  And now I must return to my patient.  I fear it will be necessary for you to keep out of sight until there is some change, as your presence seems to excite her so much.  But do not let that distress you,” he added kindly, as he noticed an expression of the keenest anguish sweep over Mr. Dinsmore’s features; “it is a common thing in such cases for them to turn away from the very one they love best when in health.”