Dr. Ritchie’s private report to Mrs. Sutton, who accompanied him to tne lower floor, under color of seeing that he was served with luncheon, was discouraging.  The disease had made fearful inroads upon a constitution that had never been robust, and the nervous excitability of the patient was likely to accelerate her decline.  She might linger for several months.  It would not surprise him to hear that she had died within twelve hours after his visit.  It was but fair and professional he added, that he should, through Mrs. Sutton, advise Mr. Chilton of her state, although, unless he were mistaken, he had already anticipated his verdict.

This Mrs. Sutton found was the case, when she essayed that evening to insure him against the awful shock of his wife’s unexpected dissolution.

“She has never been entirely well since the death of our second child, a year ago,” he said.  “The little one was buried on a very stormy day, and the mother would not be dissuaded from going to the cemetery.  The severe cold, acting upon a system enfeebled by grief, induced an attack of pneumonia.  Dr. Ritchie but coincides with every other physician I have consulted.”

“It is a pity you are obliged to leave her so soon,” observed the sympathizing nurse.  “Although she may be more comfortable a week hence than she is now.”

“A week!  I had no intention of returning in less than a month’s time.  I made all my arrangements to that effect before leaving home.  Rosa’s reference to my desire to go back to my clients was sheer badinage”—­smiling mournfully.  “You have heard her talk often enough to understand how little of earnest there is in the raillery.”  More insincerity!  For, contradictory as it may appear, Mrs. Sutton felt constrained to believe his unsupported word, in opposition to his wife’s written assertion that he designed to return to his practice the ensuing week.

“She thought I would be more apt to come if I imagined that he would soon be gone!” was her grieved reflection.  “If she could beguile me hither by this assurance, she trusted to her coaxings and my compassion to retain me.  O Rosa!  Rosa! cannot even the honest hour teach you to be truthful?”

CHAPTER XVI.

The honest hour.

The shadow of death drew on apace to the sight of all, save the consumptive, and her semi-imbecile mother.  These seemed alike blind to the fatal symptoms that were more strongly defined with every passing day.  The paralytic sat in her wheeled chair, in the March sunshine, at the window of her chamber, and talked droningly of other times and paltry pleasures to that one of her daughters or grand-children whose turn it was to minister to her comfort and amusement, and insisted upon having all the neighborhood news repeated in her dull ear with wearisome—­to the narrator—­amplifications and reiterations, shaking with childish laughter at