"She keeps it from you, sir, and has begged me not to alarm you, but it is my duty. I should never forgive myself if I went away without speaking. No, sir, she is far from well, and is not getting on as she ought. She grows weaker and weaker--and baby, too, is not thriving. It is that which keeps Mrs. Cohen back." "What can be done, nurse?" asked Aaron, the agony of his feelings depicted on his countenance. "Tell me--only tell me!" "It isn't for me to say, Mr. Cohen. If I were you I would ask the doctor to speak plainly." "I will, I will. Nurse, does she suffer?" "She's just the one to suffer, sir, and to say nothing. It would be a dreadful thing for you, sir, if----" But here the woman stopped suddenly and bit her lip. She had said more than she intended. "Good-day, sir, and I hope we may all be wrong." He caught her arm. "No, no, nurse. I will beg the doctor to speak plainly to me; but he will not be here till to-morrow, and I cannot go to him and leave my wife and child alone in the house. Finish what you were about to say. 'It would be a dreadful thing if----'" "Well, sir, it is best to face the truth. If your poor lady was to die." "Great God! There is danger, then?" "I am afraid there is, sir. Don't take on so, sir, don't! I am sorry I spoke." "You have done what is right," Aaron groaned. "We must all of us be prepared, sir; trouble comes to all of us." "Alas, it is a human heritage! But you do not know what this means to me--you do not know what it means to me." "Perhaps I have made things out worse than they are; I hope so, I am sure. But you ask the doctor, sir, and don't give way. I shall think of your lady a good deal when I'm gone." With that, and with a sympathetic look at him, the woman departed. 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 he was startled and alarmed when he made his appearance at nightfall.