“One of the two medical men,” proceeded my aunt, “was a stranger to me.  The other had been an old friend of my husband’s, and had always felt a sincere interest in me for my husband’s sake.  After prescribing for Rachel, he said he wished to speak to me privately in another room.  I expected, of course, to receive some special directions for the management of my daughter’s health.  To my surprise, he took me gravely by the hand, and said, ’I have been looking at you, Lady Verinder, with a professional as well as a personal interest.  You are, I am afraid, far more urgently in need of medical advice than your daughter.’  He put some questions to me, which I was at first inclined to treat lightly enough, until I observed that my answers distressed him.  It ended in his making an appointment to come and see me, accompanied by a medical friend, on the next day, at an hour when Rachel would not be at home.  The result of that visit—­most kindly and gently conveyed to me—­satisfied both the physicians that there had been precious time lost, which could never be regained, and that my case had now passed beyond the reach of their art.  For more than two years I have been suffering under an insidious form of heart disease, which, without any symptoms to alarm me, has, by little and little, fatally broken me down.  I may live for some months, or I may die before another day has passed over my head—­the doctors cannot, and dare not, speak more positively than this.  It would be vain to say, my dear, that I have not had some miserable moments since my real situation has been made known to me.  But I am more resigned than I was, and I am doing my best to set my worldly affairs in order.  My one great anxiety is that Rachel should be kept in ignorance of the truth.  If she knew it, she would at once attribute my broken health to anxiety about the Diamond, and would reproach herself bitterly, poor child, for what is in no sense her fault.  Both the doctors agree that the mischief began two, if not three years since.  I am sure you will keep my secret, Drusilla—­for I am sure I see sincere sorrow and sympathy for me in your face.”

Sorrow and sympathy!  Oh, what Pagan emotions to expect from a Christian Englishwoman anchored firmly on her faith!

Little did my poor aunt imagine what a gush of devout thankfulness thrilled through me as she approached the close of her melancholy story.  Here was a career of usefulness opened before me!  Here was a beloved relative and perishing fellow-creature, on the eve of the great change, utterly unprepared; and led, providentially led, to reveal her situation to Me!  How can I describe the joy with which I now remembered that the precious clerical friends on whom I could rely, were to be counted, not by ones or twos, but by tens and twenties.  I took my aunt in my arms—­my overflowing tenderness was not to be satisfied, now, with anything less than an embrace.  “Oh!” I said to her, fervently, “the indescribable interest with which you inspire