Dr. Donaldson took his arm, and led him into the bedroom.  Margaret followed close.  There lay her mother, with an unmistakable look on her face.  She might be better now; she was sleeping, but Death had signed her for his own, and it was clear that ere long he would return to take possession.  Mr. Hale looked at her for some time without a word.  Then he began to shake all over, and, turning away from Dr. Donaldson’s anxious care, he groped to find the door; he could not see it, although several candles, brought in the sudden affright, were burning and flaring there.  He staggered into the drawing-room, and felt about for a chair.  Dr. Donaldson wheeled one to him, and placed him in it.  He felt his pulse.

‘Speak to him, Miss Hale.  We must rouse him.’

‘Papa!’ said Margaret, with a crying voice that was wild with pain.  ‘Papa!  Speak to me!’ The speculation came again into his eyes, and he made a great effort.

‘Margaret, did you know of this?  Oh, it was cruel of you!’

‘No, sir, it was not cruel!’ replied Dr. Donaldson, with quick decision.  ’Miss Hale acted under my directions.  There may have been a mistake, but it was not cruel.  Your wife will be a different creature to-morrow, I trust.  She has had spasms, as I anticipated, though I did not tell Miss Hale of my apprehensions.  She has taken the opiate I brought with me; she will have a good long sleep; and to-morrow, that look which has alarmed you so much will have passed away.’

‘But not the disease?’

Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret.  Her bent head, her face raised with no appeal for a temporary reprieve, showed that quick observer of human nature that she thought it better that the whole truth should be told.

’Not the disease.  We cannot touch the disease, with all our poor vaunted skill.  We can only delay its progress—­alleviate the pain it causes.  Be a man, sir—­a Christian.  Have faith in the immortality of the soul, which no pain, no mortal disease, can assail or touch!’

But all the reply he got, was in the choked words, ’You have never been married, Dr. Donaldson; you do not know what it is,’ and in the deep, manly sobs, which went through the stillness of the night like heavy pulses of agony.  Margaret knelt by him, caressing him with tearful caresses.  No one, not even Dr. Donaldson, knew how the time went by.  Mr. Hale was the first to dare to speak of the necessities of the present moment.

‘What must we do?’ asked he.  ’Tell us both.  Margaret is my staff—­my right hand.’

Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible directions.  No fear for to-night—­nay, even peace for to-morrow, and for many days yet.  But no enduring hope of recovery.  He advised Mr. Hale to go to bed, and leave only one to watch the slumber, which he hoped would be undisturbed.  He promised to come again early in the morning.  And with a warm and kindly shake of the hand, he left them.  They