“No,” said the Doctor.  “They are early people at Barberry Beach,—­not Sybarites in anything, so far as I can judge.  It is near nine.  Miss Dudley tells me I shall almost always find her visible by that time.  If, not hearing from you, she has made other engagements, you know she is more likely to be at leisure now than later.”

“She does not look well yet.  What was the matter with her?”

“Angina pectoris.  That is Greek to you, Katy.  Pain in the heart, then.”

“What made her have it?”

“That is a deep question in the most interesting of sciences,—­that of the metamorphoses of diseases.  Many men would answer it according to their many minds.  To the best of my belief, the cause of Miss Dudley’s having a pain in her heart lay in her great-grandfather’s toe.”

“O Doctor! what do you mean?”

“The gout.”

“Well, that sounds very aristocratic and imposing; but, notwithstanding, I know you are laughing at me.”

“No, I am not.  It is no laughing matter.”

“Why, is it dangerous?”

“Dangerous!” said he.  “It is deadly.  Why, Katy, I never shall dare to tell you anything again, if you are going to look so frightened! She did not when I told her.”

“Does she know?”

“Yes, and makes no secret of it, and is not unlikely to mention it before you; so that you must accustom yourself to the idea, and be prepared to face it as she does.”

“How came she to know?”

“She asked me.  I gave up very early in my practice, for several reasons, the habit of lying to my patients.  If they are cowards, or if, for any reason, I think the truth and the whole truth would shorten their days, I often tell them little or nothing; but I tell them nothing but the truth.  She is not a person to be put off from knowing what she has a right to know.”

“How did she take it?”

“Nobly and simply, without any affectation of indifference.  As she put the question, I laid my hand on her pulse; and, as it went on pretty firmly, I went on too.  When I had said all there was to say, she thanked me earnestly, and said, as sweetly as anything could possibly be said, that the information would add double weight to the cautions and other counsels I had given her, and told me that, if I ever came to be in a situation like hers, she trusted that I should find the comfort of being dealt with with candor and kindness like mine.  After all, Katy, she may live yet many years, and die at last of something else; and that is about the best that can be prognosticated of you and me, my dear.”

“’Tis true the young may die, but the old must,” thought I. I was half comforted, and only half.  Yet the pensive shadow of coming doom—­or shall I not rather say the solemn dawn of approaching eternity?—­seemed to lend a new and more unearthly charm to the lovely spiritual vision I cherished in my mind.