“Then there is no hope?” said Fred, with a strange quietness.

“Man can do nothing,” answered his uncle.  “You know how the case stands; the complaint cannot be reached, and there is scarcely a probability of its becoming inactive.  It may be an affair of days or weeks, or she may yet rally, and be spared to us for some time longer.”

“If I could but think so!” said Fred.  “But I cannot.  Her face will not let me hope.”

“If ever a ray from heaven shone out upon a departing saint,” said Uncle Geoffrey,—­but he could not finish the sentence, and turning away, walked to the window.

“And you must go?” said Fred, when he came back to his side again.

“I must,” said Uncle Geoffrey.  “Nothing but the most absolute necessity could make me leave you now.  I scarcely could feel myself an honest man if I was not in my place to-morrow.  I shall be here again on Thursday, at latest, and bring Beatrice.  Your mother thinks she may be a comfort to Henrietta.”

“Henrietta knows all this?” asked Fred.

“As far as she will bear to believe it,” said his uncle.  “We cannot grudge her her unconsciousness, but I am afraid it will be worse for her in the end.  You must nerve yourself, Fred, to support her.  Now, good-bye, and may God bless and strengthen you in your trial!”

Fred was left alone again to the agony of the bitterest thoughts he had ever known.  All his designs of devoting himself to her at an end!  Her whom he loved with such an intensity of enthusiastic admiration and reverence,—­the gentlest, the most affectionate, the most beautiful being he knew!  Who would ever care for him as she did?  To whom would it matter now whether he was in danger or in safety? whether he distinguished himself or not?  And how thoughtlessly had he trifled with her comfort, for the mere pleasure of a moment, and even fancied himself justified in doing so!  Even her present illness, had it not probably been brought on by her anxiety and attendance on him? and it was his own wilful disobedience to which all might be traced.  It was no wonder that, passing from one such miserable thought to another, his bodily weakness was considerably increased, and he remained very languid and unwell; so much so that had Philip Carey ever presumed to question anything Mr. Geoffrey Langford thought fit to do, he would have pronounced yesterday’s visit a most imprudent measure.  In the afternoon, as Fred was lying on his sofa, he heard a foot on the stairs, and going along the passage.

“Who is that?” said he; “the new doctor already?  It is a strange step.”

“O!  Fred, don’t be the fairy Fine Ear, as you used to be when you were at the worst,” said Henrietta.

“But do you know who it is?” said Fred.

“It is Mr. Franklin,” said Henrietta.  “You know mamma has only been once at Church since your accident, and then there was no Holy Communion.  So you must not fancy she is worse, Fred.”