“Very well; though I don’t know that what I say will be of much use.  I am not one of her favourites.”

“See her, at any rate.  It won’t do to let her sink down and die, as she certainly will if something cannot be done to arouse her.”

“I will call upon Mrs. Harrison and tell her what the doctor says.  She has great influence over her; and can persuade her to go if any one can.”

The mother of Kate heard what the doctor had said, and approved of his recommendation.  She knew, better than any one else, the true nature of the disease from which her daughter was suffering; and, although she did not hope for much from a change of scene, yet she believed the effect would be salutary rather than otherwise.  So she went to see her immediately.  She found her, as usual, alone in her chamber, with a sad countenance, and a drooping, listless air.  After inquiring, tenderly, about her health, she said—­

“I understand that Doctor R—­recommends a change of air.”

“What all doctors recommend when they do not know the cause and nature of a disease,” replied Kate, with a faint smile.

“But I think, with Doctor R—­, that a few weeks at the sea-shore will be of great benefit.  The change will interest your mind as well as invigorate your body.”

“A temporary benefit may be derived from such a change,” said Kate; “but it cannot be permanent.  When I return, I will sink again; and, perhaps, lower, from the unnatural excitement to which I have been subjected.”

“Kate, my child, it is wrong for you to give up in this way.  Your disease is more of the mind than of the body; and you have the power to arouse yourself and throw it off, if you will.”

“The power, mother!  I, the power!” exclaimed Kate, in a voice that made her mother start.

“Have you not?” inquired Mrs. Harrison calmly.

“Has the bird, whose wing is broken, the power to fly?” asked Kate.

“Unless you make an effort to throw off your present state of mind, you cannot live.  And are you willing to die, and leave this dear child in the hands of those who cannot love it as you do?”

“Has it not already been taken from me?  Does it not draw its existence from another breast?”

“But your health required—­”

“My health! mother!  My very life depended upon the privilege you have all denied me.  Do you want the proof?  Look at that shadowy hand”—­and she held up the thin white member against the light, which almost shone through it—­“and at this shrunken face,” and she laid her hand upon her colourless cheek.  “Restore the fountain that has been dried, and let my babe drink at it, and there is some hope.  None without.”

“That is impossible, Kate”—­

“And just as impossible is my return to health through the means proposed.”

“But, for the sake of your friends, you ought to be willing to try the means of restoration prescribed by a physician in whom we all have confidence.”