"I have never denied what was for your good, sweetheart." Dr. Staunton clasped Effie to his breast. She flung her arms round him with a sudden tight pressure. "Easy, easy!" he exclaimed; "you are half-choking me. My breathing certainly feels oppressed--I must have taken a chill. I'll get off to bed as fast as I can. No, child, you need not be alarmed. I have often noticed this queer development of hoarseness in people who have long breathed the poisonous air which surrounds diphtheria and scarlet fever, but in my case the hoarseness means nothing. Now, Effie, let me say a word or two to you. I don't know what the future has in it--it is impossible for any of us to know the future, and I say, thank God for the blessed curtain which hides it from our view; but whatever it has in it, my child, I wish you to understand that you are to do your best with your life. Make it full if you can--in any case make it blessed. A month ago, I will admit frankly, I did not approve of lady-nurses. After my wonderful experience, however, with Dorothy Fraser, I must say that I have completely changed my opinion. The girl with heart and nerve, with common sense, with an unselfish spirit, can be a nurse whatever her station in life. If to these qualifications she adds the refinements of good breeding and the education of a lady, she is the best of all." "Hurrah!" cried Effie--tears filled her eyes. "What a grand triumph for Dorothy!" she exclaimed. "She deserves every word I have said of her. If she wishes to take you back with her to London when she goes,--if that is what is now at the bottom of your heart,--go, child, with my blessing. We shall miss you at home, of course, but we are not worth our salt if we are going to be selfish." "You never, never were that," said Effie. "Now I have one more thing to say--it is about your mother. I have never really told you my true fears about her. You know, of course, that she suffers from weakness of the heart. At present that weakness springs from no organic source, but of late there have been symptoms which make me fear that the functional mischief may be developed into the more serious organic form of disease, should any shock be given her. It is that fear which haunts my life--I could not live without your mother, child. Effie, child. I could not live without her." The doctor's voice suddenly broke--he bowed his head on his hands, and a broken sort of groan escaped his lips. "We'll take all possible care of her," said Effie. "She shall not have any pain, nor fear, nor anxiety." "I know you will do your best," said the doctor; "but if you leave her----" "I'll never leave her if it is to injure her--there, I have promised." "You are a good girl. I trust you. I lean on you. Your mother could not live through an anxiety--a great fear, a great trouble would kill her." "It shan't come," said Effie. "God grant it may not come," said the doctor in his husky voice. He rose suddenly to his feet.