At length, at length, the truth had been spoken; at length, at length, he knew the worst. It was as if a sentence of death had been pronounced. His Rachel, his beloved wife, the tenderest, the truest that man had ever been blessed with, was to be taken from him. His child, also, perhaps; but that was a lesser grief, upon which he had no heart to brood. His one overwhelming anxiety was for Rachel, who, as it now seemed to him, was lying at death's door in the room above. He had some soup ready, and he took a basin up to her. "Can you drink this, dear?" "I will try." He assisted her to rise, and put a pillow at her back. As he fed her he watched her face, and he saw that it had grown wan and thin. It was well for both of them that she could not see him; the sight of his agony would have deepened her sufferings and added to his own. With wonderful control he spoke to her with some semblance of cheerfulness, and his voice and words brought a smile to her lips. So through the day he ministered to her, and every time he left her room his fears grew stronger. He did not expect the doctor till the following day, and was surprised when he made his appearance at nightfall. "I happened to be passing," he said to Aaron, "and I thought I would drop in to see how you are getting along." When they came down from the sick-room Aaron observed a graver expression on his face. "It is unfortunate that you have no nurse, Mr. Cohen," he said; "your wife needs constant care and watchfulness." "She will have it, doctor. Is she any better, sir? How is she progressing?" "She is still the same, still the same; no better and no worse." "It is not in her favor, doctor, that she remains the same?" "No, I cannot conscientiously say it is. At this stage a little additional strength would be of great assistance to her. Nature's forces require rallying--but we will hope for the best, Mr. Cohen." "We will, doctor, but will hope avail?" His sad voice struck significantly upon the doctor's ears. "Perhaps not, but it is a consolation." "There are human griefs, sir, for which there is no consolation. I cannot wrest my thoughts from the selfish view. There are sorrows that come so close home as to take complete possession of us." "It is human, Mr. Cohen, it is natural; but we must not shut out resignation, fortitude, submission." "Doctor, will you speak plainly to me? It will be merciful." "What is it you wish to know?" "Tell me exactly how my wife and child are, so that I may be prepared"--his voice faltered--"for the worst." "You do not know, then?" "I fear--but I do not know."