“Not precisely.  I gathered that it would be very early in the afternoon.”

“Here he is!” exclaimed Mr. Carlyle with alacrity, as he went into the hall.  She supposed he alluded to the physician—­supposed he had seen him pass the window.  Their entrance together woke up William.

“Well,” said the doctor, who was a little man with a bald head, “and how fares it with my young patient? Bon jour madame.”

“Bon jour, monsieur,” responded she.  She wished everybody would address her in French, and take her for French; there seemed less chance of recognition.  She would have to speak in good plain English, however, if she must carry on conversation with the doctor.  Beyond a familiar phrase or two, he was something like Justice Hare—­Nong parley Fronsay me!

“And how does the cod-liver oil get on?” asked the doctor of William, as he drew him to the light.  “It is nicer now than it used to be, eh?”

“No,” said William; “it is nastier than ever.”

Dr. Martin looked at the boy; felt his pulse, his skin, listened to his breathing.  “There,” said he, presently, “you may sit down and have your nap out.”

“I wish I might have something to drink; I am very thirsty.  May I ring for some water, papa?”

“Go and find your aunt’s maid, and ask her for some,” said Mr. Carlyle.

“Ask her for milk,” called out Dr. Martin.  “Not water.”

Away went William.  Mr. Carlyle was leaning against the side of the window; Dr. Martin folded his arms before it:  Lady Isabel stood near the latter.  The broad, full light was cast upon all, but the thick veil hid Lady Isabel’s face.  It was not often she could be caught without that veil, for she seemed to wear her bonnet at all sorts of seasonable and unseasonable times.

“What is your opinion, doctor?” asked Mr. Carlyle.

“Well,” began the doctor, in a very professional tone, “the boy is certainly delicate.  But—­”

“Stay, Dr. Martin,” was the interruption, spoken in a low, impressive voice, “you will deal candidly with me.  I must know the truth, without disguise.  Tell it me freely.”

Dr. Martin paused.  “The truth is not always palatable, Mr. Carlyle.”

“True.  But for that very reason, all the more necessary.  Let me hear the worst.  And the child has no mother, you know, to be shocked with it.”

“I fear that it will be the worst.”

“Death?”

“Ay.  The seeds of consumption must have been inherent in him.  They are showing out too palpably.”

“Is there no hope for the child?”

Dr. Martin looked at him.  “You bade me give you the truth.”

“Nothing else; nothing but the truth,” returned Mr. Carlyle, his tone one of mingled pain and command.

“Then, there is none; no hope whatever.  The lungs are extensively diseased.”

“And how long—­”

“That I cannot say,” interrupted the doctor, divining what the next question was to be.  “He may linger on for months; for a year, it may even be; or a very short period may see the termination.  Don’t worry him with any more lessons and stuff of learning; he’ll never want it.”