“Well, madam,” said he gravely and quietly.  “It is as it always has been.  ‘As is the race of leaves, so that of man.’  When one falls, another comes.  Here’s a little Christopher come, in place of him that is gone:  a brave, beautiful boy, ma’am; the finest but one I ever brought into the world.  He is come to take his father’s place in our hearts—­I see you valued his poor father, ma’am—­but he comes too late for me.  At your age, ma’am, friendships come naturally; they spring like loves in the soft heart of youth:  at seventy, the gate is not so open; the soil is more sterile.  I shall never care for another Christopher; never see another grow to man’s estate.”

“The mother, sir,” sobbed Lady Cicely; “the poor mother?”

“Like them all—­poor creature:  in heaven, madam; in heaven.  New life! new existence! a new character.  All the pride, glory, rapture, and amazement of maternity—­thanks to her ignorance, which we must prolong, or I would not give one straw for her life, or her son’s.  I shall never leave the house till she does know it, and come when it may, I dread the hour.  She is not framed by nature to bear so deadly a shock.”

“Her father, sir.  Would he not be the best person to break it to her?  He was out to-day.”

“Her father, ma’am?  I shall get no help from him.  He is one of those soft, gentle creatures, that come into the world with what your canting fools call a mission; and his mission is to take care of number one.  Not dishonestly, mind you, nor violently, nor rudely, but doucely and calmly.  The care a brute like me takes of his vitals, that care Lusignan takes of his outer cuticle.  His number one is a sensitive plant.  No scenes, no noise; nothing painful—­by-the-by, the little creature that writes in the papers, and calls calamities painful, is of Lusignan’s breed.  Out to-day! of course he was out, ma’am:  he knew from me his daughter would be in peril all day, so he visited a friend.  He knew his own tenderness, and evaded paternal sensibilities:  a self-defender.  I count on no help from that charming man.”

“A man!  I call such creachaas weptiles!” said Lady Cicely, her ghastly cheek coloring for a moment.

“Then you give them a false importance.”

In the course of this interview, Lady Cicely accused herself sadly of having interfered between man and wife, and with the best intentions brought about this cruel calamity.  “Judge, then, sir,” said she, “how grateful I am to you for undertaking this cruel task.  I was her schoolfellow, sir, and I love her dearly; but she has turned against me, and now, oh, with what horror she will regard me!”

“Madam,” said the doctor, “there is nothing more mean and unjust than to judge others by events that none could foresee.  Your conscience is clear.  You did your best for my poor nephew:  but Fate willed it otherwise.  As for my niece, she has many virtues, but justice is one you must not look for in that quarter.  Justice requires brains.  It’s a virtue the heart does not deal in.  You must be content with your own good conscience, and an old man’s esteem.  You did all for the best; and this very day you have done a good, kind action.  God bless you for it!”