There was no hope from old Crusty.  Christopher left him, snubbed and heart-sick.  At last he met a sensible man, who made him see there was no short cut in that profession.  He must be content to play the up-hill game; must settle in some good neighborhood; marry, if possible, since husbands and fathers of families prefer married physicians; and so be poor at thirty, comfortable at forty, and rich at fifty—­perhaps.

Then Christopher came down to his lodgings at Gravesend, and was very unhappy; and after some days of misery, he wrote a letter to Rosa in a moment of impatience, despondency, and passion.

Rosa Lusignan got worse and worse.  The slight but frequent hemorrhage was a drain upon her system, and weakened her visibly.  She began to lose her rich complexion, and sometimes looked almost sallow; and a slight circle showed itself under her eyes.  These symptoms were unfavorable; nevertheless, Dr. Snell and Mr. Wyman accepted them cheerfully, as fresh indications that nothing was affected but the liver; they multiplied and varied their prescriptions; the malady ignored those prescriptions, and went steadily on.  Mr. Lusignan was terrified but helpless.  Rosa resigned and reticent.

But it was not in human nature that a girl of this age could always and at all hours be mistress of herself.  One evening in particular she stood before the glass in the drawing-room, and looked at herself a long time with horror.  “Is that Rosa Lusignan?” said she, aloud; “it is her ghost.”

A deep groan startled her.  She turned; it was her father.  She thought he was fast asleep; and so indeed he had been; but he was just awaking, and heard his daughter utter her real mind.  It was a thunder-clap.  “Oh, my child! what shall I do?” he cried.

Then Rosa was taken by surprise in her turn.  She spoke out.  “Send for a great physician, papa.  Don’t let us deceive ourselves; it is our only chance.”

“I will ask Mr. Wyman to get a physician down from London.”

“No, no; that is no use; they will put their heads together, and he will say whatever Mr. Wyman tells him.  La! papa, a clever man like you, not to see what a cheat that consultation was.  Why, from what you told me, one can see it was managed so that Dr. Snell could not possibly have an opinion of his own.  No; no more echoes of Mr. Chatterbox.  If you really want to cure me, send for Christopher Staines.”

“Dr. Staines! he is very young.”

“But he is very clever, and he is not an echo.  He won’t care how many doctors he contradicts when I am in danger.  Papa, it is your child’s one chance.”

“I’ll try it,” said the old man, eagerly.  “How confident you look! your color has come back.  It is an inspiration.  Where is he?”

“I think by this time he must be at his lodgings in Gravesend.  Send to him to-morrow morning.”

“Not I!  I’ll go to him to-night.  It is only a mile, and a fine clear night.”