Instead of turning her steps homeward, she turned them towards West Street, and paced twice before the house that contained Dame Bell and her daughter. A light shone behind the white window blind, indicating the probability that the room had inmates; but Daisy could not see who they were. She turned towards home, and had almost reached it when Frank came hastily out of the surgery, a bottle of medicine in his hand. "Is it you, Daisy? I began to think you were late. I meant to come to the church and fetch you, but found I could not." "Shall I walk with you?" asked Daisy, trying to commence carrying out the good resolutions she had made in church, and perhaps somewhat pacified by his words. "It is a fine night." For answer he took her hand, and placed it within his arm. Ah, never would there have been a better husband than Frank Raynor, if she had only met him kindly. "Who is the medicine for?" asked Daisy. "For Dame Bell. I am walking fast, Daisy, but she ought to have it without delay." "Have you been with her all this time?" "Yes. I was coming away when she had a sort of fainting-fit, the second this evening; and it took more than half-an hour to get her round." "She is really ill, then?" "Really ill!" echoed Frank in surprise. "Why, Daisy, she is dying. I do not mean dying to-night," he added; "or likely to die immediately; but that which she is suffering from will gradually kill her. My uncle suspected from the first what it would turn out to be." Daisy said no more, and the house was gained. As Frank rang the bell, she left his arm and went a few steps away; beyond sight of any one who might open the door, but not beyond hearing of any conversation that might take place. Rosaline appeared. Frank put the bottle into her hand. "I brought it round myself, Rosaline, that I might be sure it came quickly. Has there been another fainting-fit?" "No, not another, Mr. Frank," replied Rosaline. "She is in bed now and seems tranquil." "Well, give her a dose of this without delay." "Very well, sir. I--I wish you would tell me the truth," she went on in a somewhat agitated voice. "The truth as to what?" "Whether she is much worse? Dangerously so." "No, I assure you she is not: not materially so, if you mean that. Of course--as you know yourself, Rosaline, or I should not speak of it to you--she will grow worse and worse with time." "I do know it, sir, unfortunately." "But I think it will be very gradual; neither sudden nor alarming. This evening's weakness seems to me to be quite exceptional. She must have been either exerting or exciting herself: I said so upstairs." "True. It is excitement. But I did not like to say so before her. For the past few days she has been complaining that my father worries her," continued Rosaline, dropping her voice to a whisper. "She says he seems to be in her mind night and day: asleep, she dreams of him; she dwells on him. And oh, what a dreadful thing it all is!"