'I waited up till twelve o'clock, and James never came in. I heard him let himself in afterwards with his latch-key, and came up into the dressing-room. I called out to know where he had been, it is so unusual for him to stay out, and he said he was much occupied, and that I was to go to sleep, for he had some writing to do. But, Robert, instead of writing, he was pacing the house all night, out of one room into another; and in the morning--oh, I wish you could have seen him!--he looked wild, wan, haggard, as one does who has got up out of a long illness; and I am positive he had been weeping. From that time I have noticed the change I tell you of. He seems like one going into his grave. But, whether the illness is upon the body or the mind, I know not.' Dr. Bevary appeared intent upon putting together the pieces of his phial, making them fit into each other. 'It will all come right, Louisa; don't fret yourself: something must have gone cross in his business. I'll call in at the office and see him.' 'Do not say that I have spoken to you. He seems to have quite a nervous dread of its being observed that anything is wrong with him; has spoken sharply, not in anger, but in anguish, when I have pressed the question.' 'As if the lady could have anything to do with it!' exclaimed Dr. Bevary, in a tone of satire. 'I do not suppose she had. I only mentioned the circumstances because it is since that evening he has changed. You can see what you think of him, and tell me afterwards.' The answer was only a nod; and Mrs. Hunter went out. Dr. Bevary remained in a brown study. His servant came in with an account that patient after patient was waiting for him, but the doctor replied by a repelling gesture, and the man did not again dare to intrude. Perplexity and pain sat upon his brow; and, when at last he did rouse himself, he raised aloft his hands, and gave utterance to words that sounded very like a prayer: 'I pray heaven it may not be so! It would kill Louisa.' The pale, delicate face of Mrs. Hunter was at that moment bending over the invalid in her bed. In her soft grey silk dress and light shawl, her simple straw bonnet with its white ribbons, she looked just the right sort of visitor for a sick-chamber; and her voice was sweet, and her manner gentle. 'No, ma'am, don't speak of hope to me,' murmured Mrs. Baxendale. 'I know that there is none left, and I am quite reconciled to die. I have been an ailing woman for years, dear lady; and it is wonderful how those that are so get to look upon death, if they can but presume to hope their soul is safe, with satisfaction, rather than with dread. Though I dare not say as much yet to my poor husband.' 'I have long been ailing, too,' softly replied Mrs. Hunter. 'I am rarely free from pain, and I know that I shall never be healthy and strong again. But still--I do fear it would give me pain to die, were the fiat to come forth.'