“Ill! and not tell me!”

“She kept it from you, my poor friend, not to distress you; and she tried to keep it from me, but how could she?  For two months she has had some terrible complaint—­it is destroying her.  She is the ghost of herself.  Oh, my poor child! my child!”

The old man sobbed aloud.  The young man stood trembling, and ashy pale.  Still, the habits of his profession, and the experience of dangers overcome, together with a certain sense of power, kept him up; but, above all, love and duty said, “Be firm.”  He asked for an outline of the symptoms.

They alarmed him greatly.

“Let us lose no more time,” said he.  “I will see her at once.”

“Do you object to my being present?”

“Of course not.”

“Shall I tell you what Dr. Snell says it is, and Mr. Wyman?”

“By all means—­after I have seen her.”

This comforted Mr. Lusignan.  He was to get an independent judgment, at all events.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Dr. Staines paused and leaned against the baluster.  “Give me a moment,” said he.  “The patient must not know how my heart is beating, and she must see nothing in my face but what I choose her to see.  Give me your hand once more, sir; let us both control ourselves.  Now announce me.”

Mr. Lusignan opened the door, and said, with forced cheerfulness, “Dr.
Staines, my dear, come to give you the benefit of his skill.”

She lay on the sofa, just as we left her.  Only her bosom began to heave.

Then Christopher Staines drew himself up, and the majesty of knowledge and love together seemed to dilate his noble frame.  He fixed his eye on that reclining, panting figure, and stepped lightly but firmly across the room to know the worst, like a lion walking up to levelled lances.

CHAPTER III.

The young physician walked steadily up to his patient without taking his eye off her, and drew a chair to her side.

Then she took down one hand—­the left—­and gave it him, averting her face tenderly, and still covering it with her right; “For,” said she to herself, “I am such a fright now.”  This opportune reflection, and her heaving bosom, proved that she at least felt herself something more than his patient.  Her pretty consciousness made his task more difficult; nevertheless, he only allowed himself to press her hand tenderly with both his palms one moment, and then he entered on his functions bravely.  “I am here as your physician.”

“Very well,” said she softly.

He gently detained the hand, and put his finger lightly to her pulse; it was palpitating, and a fallacious test.  Oh, how that beating pulse, by love’s electric current, set his own heart throbbing in a moment!

He put her hand gently, reluctantly down, and said, “Oblige me by turning this way.”  She turned, and he winced internally at the change in her; but his face betrayed nothing.  He looked at her full; and, after a pause, put her some questions:  one was as to the color of the hemorrhage.  She said it was bright red.