Against her own fears, Heather fought madly; she could not endure that any one should say Lally looked ill, that Lally grew thinner; she could not bear that Lally herself should complain of weariness. Her love made her at times seem almost harsh; her passionate struggle with the dread which would not now be refused entrance, made her fiercely deny the existence of danger. That which had at one time only caused her anxiety, now rendered her nearly frantic. She grew irritable and impatient. The sweet repose of old, gave place to a constant desire to be up and doing. Could Mr. Henry give Lally no different medicine? should he advise taking her away? Mr. Dudley’s aunt was wintering in the south of France, might it not be better to try a total change of climate? She would go with her, if Mr. Henry thought a different air would restore her strength; but Mr. Henry declined to recommend travelling at such a season. He said the child was better at home; better in that warm town house, with every comfort around her, than she could possibly be elsewhere. And thus things went on, till at length Lally had to be carried up and downstairs, and lay most of the day on a sofa, drawn close beside one of the drawing-room windows, from which she could look out over the Square. Even then Heather would not despair; she thought when once the spring came, Lally was certain to get better; she was always saying, that the moment mild weather arrived she must take her child to the sea-side, and the pair never wearied of planning the journey, of picturing the waves rippling in upon the shore, of gathering, in imagination, shells and pebbles and weed; of fancying how pleasant it would be to see the sun shining upon the waters, as they used to do—as they used—ah! Heaven. Once again Lally took up her former cry of “Will it be spring soon, mamma? Will it be spring before very long?” And she would repeat the same inquiry to Mr. Henry, with the addition of—“And when the spring comes, shall I be well?” The first time she put this question, Heather looked swiftly and sharply towards the surgeon, but she could read nothing from his face. “Well,” he repeated, “are you not well now?” “No;” and the poor little head was shaken in confirmation of this hopeless negative. “Tell me where you feel ill,” he said; but Lally was incapable of this descriptive flight. “Has she pain?” he asked; and Mrs. Dudley answered, “Very rarely.” She would have liked Mr. Henry to pursue the subject and investigate it more thoroughly, but instead of doing so, the surgeon only took up one of Lally’s hands, and looked at it absently. He knew, and had always known, that the malady which was on the child, his skill, great though it might be, could never cure. He knew the disease she had in her, call it by what other technical name his profession might, was, in plain English, Death; and the man who shall discover a cure for that complaint has yet to be born.