“Doctor,” said she, affecting all of a sudden a little air of small sprightliness, very small, “now, do—­you—­think—­it would do your patient—­the least good in the world—­if you were to take him this?”

She handed him her work, and then she blushed divinely.

“Why, it is a figure of Hope.”

“Yes.”

“I think it might do him a great deal of good.”

“You could say I painted it for him.”

“So I will.  That will do him no harm neither.  Shall I say I found you crying over it?”

“Oh, no! no!  That would make him cry too, perhaps.”

“Ah, I forgot that.  Grace, you are an angel.”

“Ah, no.  But you can tell him I am—­if you think so.  That will do him no great harm—­will it?”

“Not an atom to him; but it will subject me to a pinch for stale news.  There, give me my patient’s picture, and let me go.”

She kissed the little picture half-furtively, and gave it him, and let him go; only, as he went out at the door, she murmured, “Come often.”

Now, when this artful doctor got outside the door, his face became grave all of a sudden, for he had seen enough to give him a degree of anxiety he had not betrayed to his interesting patient herself.

“Well, doctor?” said Mr. Carden, affecting more cheerfulness than he felt.  “Nothing there beyond your skill, I suppose?”

“Her health is declining rapidly.  Pale, hollow-eyed, listless, languid—­not the same girl.”

“Is it bodily do you think, or only mental?”

“Mental as to its cause; but bodily in the result.  The two things are connected in all of us, and very closely in Miss Carden.  Her organization is fine, and, therefore, subtle.  She is tuned in a high key.  Her sensibility is great; and tough folk, like you and me, must begin by putting ourselves in her place before we prescribe for her, otherwise our harsh hands may crush a beautiful, but too tender, flower.”

“Good heavens!” said Carden, beginning to be seriously alarmed, “do you mean to say you think, if this goes on, she will be in any danger?”

“Why, if it were to go on at the same rate, it would be very serious.  She must have lost a stone in weight already.”

“What, my child! my sweet Grace!  Is it possible her life—­”

“And do you think your daughter is not mortal like other people?  The young girls that are carried past your door to the churchyard one after another, had they no fathers?”

At this blunt speech the father trembled from head to foot.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

“Doctor,” said Mr. Carden, “you are an old friend, and a discreet man; I will confide the truth to you.”

“You may save yourself the trouble.  I have watched the whole progress of this amour up to the moment when you gave them the advantage of your paternal wisdom, and made them both miserable.”