Poor Emmeline’s blood froze in her veins, and her pale lips betrayed the terror his question had conveyed. “I beg you will not be alarmed,” he added, in a sententious tone, observing her emotion; “Lord Fitzhenry is young; has always, I believe, lived most temperately. At present, I apprehend no immediate danger; but we must be careful. These hereditary complaints are sometimes obstinate, and difficult to deal with.” And thus he went on for some time with the _sang froid_ which some of his profession, perhaps naturally, acquire; fancying he could in that manner reassure his trembling auditor. But she scarcely heard him. The sudden transition from joy and the overflowings of her grateful heart, to the dreadful apprehensions which now took possession of her mind, was too violent to be endured. Almost unconscious what she did, she received from Doctor Harrington’s hand his written prescription; and, with an altered countenance, returned to her husband. The flushed crimson of his cheek, the bright, feverish sparkling of his eyes, now made her shudder; and she hid her face at the back of the arm-chair in which he was sitting, fearing she might betray herself. “Well, Emmeline,” said he at last, “what news from Doctor Harrington? he looked prodigiously pompous about me; but I hope he will give me something to stop my cough, and make me sleep: in fact, that is all I now require to be well. But it is wearisome. Last night I never closed my eyes: however, I believe that was the effect of happiness, at being once more at Arlingford, and with you. What does the sapient doctor recommend? Let me look at what he has written. This is all Greek and Hebrew to me,” said he, in a light tone, as he returned the paper to Emmeline; “indeed, I hope, for my learning’s credit, even more unintelligible—but, Emmeline, are you not well? how pale you look! I think you require a little doctoring as well as myself. You have worn yourself out by nursing me; I will not let you do so any more. Last night you did not leave my room for hours, I know, for I watched you, and at last was forced to feign sleep, in order that you might go and get some yourself. But this shall not be any longer. I really do not now want my servant, or, indeed, any attendance. We will have that little couch-bed moved into my room for you; and no soporific which the doctor can recommend, will make me sleep half so well, as knowing you have that rest which I am sure you need even more than myself.” Emmeline hid her face on the cushion on which his head was lying—she could not speak. “What, Emmeline!” he continued, “will you not agree to my proposal? Have I said any thing to displease you? Foolish girl!” and he drew away her hands, that were hiding her face. On beholding it, he looked at her a moment in silence. His countenance changed. He took her hand in his, raised his eyes to heaven, but said nothing.