“I know you cannot afford to remain so far away,” she said. “What may happen to the _Areopagus_ in your absence! I have always heard that sub-editors are a most incorrigible class of people. They insert those things which they should not insert, and so on. You may find yourself pledged to something appalling in the way of politics when you get back to London; or discover that one of your dearest friends has been flayed alive by your most savage operator. And, you see, I am so much better. I shall return to England in the spring quite a new creature.” In this manner did Mrs. Jerningham cajole her friend to abandon her. It was the final sacrifice which she offered up--the sacrifice of her sole earthly happiness. She stood at her window watching the steamer as it left the island, and her heart sank within her. He was gone out of her life for ever. Thus faded all the glory of her world. She sat alone till long after dusk, thinking of her wasted, mistaken life; while Mrs. Colton fondly believed her charge was enjoying a refreshing slumber. The English doctor, who attended Mrs. Jerningham daily, found his patient much worse when he made his call upon the morning after Mr. Desmond’s departure. “I am afraid you were guilty of some imprudence yesterday,” he said; “for you are certainly not looking quite yourself to-day.” “Yesterday was one of the quietest days I have spent on the island,” replied Mrs. Jerningham; “I did not stir out of doors.” “That was a pity; for you ought to enjoy our good weather while it lasts. The rains will set in soon, and you will be a prisoner. But after our rainy season we have a delicious winter; and the voyage from England has done such wonders for you, that I really expect great things between this and the spring.” “Do you mean that you really think I am to live?” asked Mrs. Jerningham, looking at him earnestly; “to drag my life on for weeks and months, and perhaps for years?” “Upon my honour I have strong hopes, as I told your aunt yesterday; the improvement since your arrival has been so marked that I can hope anything. You do not know what Madeira can do for weak lungs.” “Then I wish I had never come here.” “My dear madam, you--” cried the doctor, alarmed. “That sounds very horrible, does it not, Mr. Ransom? But, you see, there is a time when one’s life comes to a legitimate end--one’s mission is finished. There is no room for one any more upon the earth, as it seems. The priest has said, ‘_Ite, missa est_;’ the end is come. I do not want to prolong my life beyond its natural close; and that has come.” Mr. Ransom looked at his patient as if doubtful whether she were altogether in her right mind. But he did not discuss the subject; he murmured some little soothing commonplace, and departed to warn Mrs. Colton that the patient was disposed to depression of spirits, and must, if possible, be roused and diverted.