“A cripple for life!” She started--her color came and went--her eye wandered to the chair beside her, on which was her little writing-case; I conclude that in the intervals of her pain she had been trying to send these ill news, or to apply for help to some one. “You will be lame for life,” I repeated, “unless you take care.” “Shall I now?” “No--with reasonable caution I trust you will do well.” “That is enough. Do not trouble yourself any more about me. Pray go back to my father.”. She turned from me and closed her eyes. There was nothing more to be done with Miss Penelope. Calling a servant who stood by, I gave my last orders concerning her, and departed. A strange person--this elder sister. What differences of character exist in families! There was no change in my other patient. As I stood looking at him, his daughter glided round to my side. We exchanged a glance only--she seemed quite to understand that talking was inadmissible. Then she stood by me, silently gazing. “You are sure there is no change?” “None.” “Lisa--ought she not to know? I never sent a telegraph message; will you tell me how to do it?” Her quiet assumption of duty--her thoughtful methodical arrangements; surely the sister was wrong,--that is, as I knew well, any great necessity would soon prove her to be wrong--about Miss Theodora. I said there was no need to telegraph until morning, when, as I rode back to the camp, I would do it myself. “Thank you.” No objection or apology; only that soft “thank you”--taking all things calmly and naturally, as a man would like to see a woman take the gift of his life, if necessary. No, not life; that is owed--but any or all of its few pleasures would be cheerfully laid down for such another “thank you.” While I was considering what should be done for the night, there came a rustling and chattering outside in the passage. Miss Johnston had sent a servant to sit up with her father. She came--knocking at the door-handle, rattling the candlestick, and tramping across the floor like a regiment of soldiers--so that my patient moaned, and put up his hand to his head. I said--sharply enough, no doubt--that I must have quiet. A loud voice, a door slammed to, even a heavy step across the floor, and I would not answer for the consequences. If Mr. Johnston were meant to recover, there must be no one in his room but the doctor and the nurse. “I understand--Susan, come away.” There was a brief conference outside; then Miss Theodora re-entered alone, bolted the door, and was again at my side. “Will that do?” “Yes.” The clock struck two while we were standing there. I stole a glance at her white, composed face. “Can you sit up?--do you think?” “Certainly.”