Nothing would induce Lady Scatcherd to go to bed; but the two doctors agreed to lie down, each in a room on one side of the patient.  How was it possible that anything but good should come to him, being so guarded?  ‘He’s going on finely, Lady Scatcherd, quite finely,’ were the last words Mr Rerechild said as he left the room.

And then Dr Thorne, taking Lady Scatcherd’s hand and leading her out into another chamber, told her the truth.

‘Lady Scatcherd,’ said he, in his tenderest voice—­and his voice could be very tender when occasion required it—­’Lady Scatcherd, do not hope; you must not hope; it would be cruel to bid you to do so.’

‘Oh, doctor! oh, doctor!’

‘My dear friend, there is no hope.’

‘Oh, Dr Thorne!’ said the wife, looking wildly up into her companion’s face, though she hardly yet realized the meaning of what he said, although her senses were half stunned by the blow.

’Dear Lady Scatcherd, is it not better that I should tell you the truth?’

‘Oh, I suppose so; oh yes, oh yes; ah me! ah me! ah me!’ And then she began rocking herself backwards and forwards on her chair, with her apron up to her eyes.

‘Look to Him, Lady Scatcherd, who only can make such grief endurable.’

’Yes, yes, yes; I suppose so.  Ah me! ah me!  But, Dr Thorne, there must be some chance—­isn’t there any chance?  That man says he’s going on so well.’

’I fear there is no chance—­as far as my knowledge goes there is no chance.’

’Then why does that chattering magpie tell such lies to a woman?  Ah me! ah me! oh, doctor! doctor! what shall I do? what shall I do?’ and poor Lady Scatcherd, fairly overcome by her sorrow, burst out crying like a great school-girl.

And yet what had her husband done for her that she should thus weep for him?  Would not her life be much more blessed when this cause of all her troubles should be removed from her?  Would she not then be a free woman instead of a slave?  Might she not then expect to begin to taste the comforts of life?  What had that harsh tyrant of hers done that was good or serviceable for her?  Why should she thus weep for him in paroxysms of truest grief?

We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery of the world tell much of conjugal disturbances as a cure for which women will look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwilling eyes.  The raillery of the world is very slanderous.  In our daily jests we attribute to each other vices of which neither we, nor our neighbours, nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty.  It is our favourite parlance to talk of the family troubles of Mrs Green on our right, and to tell now Mrs Young on our left is strongly suspected of having raised her hand to her lord and master.  What right have we to make these charges?  What have we seen in our own personal walks through life to make us believe that women are devils?  There may possibly have been Xantippe here and there, but Imogenes are to be found in every bush.  Lady Scatcherd, in spite of the life she had led, was one of them.