He knew her body would grow more feeble, her limbs more easily tired, her poor pinched little face more pinched as the days went by. He knew, that in the whole of the pharmacopœia, there was not a drug which might give her even a chance of life. He knew this, he had always known it; and yet he could not bring himself to tell Heather the naked truth. He saw the woman’s heart was bound up in her child; he guessed, perhaps, that her husband was not likely to be much stay or comfort to her when the hour of trial came; and yet, at length, he decided to speak to Arthur, to tell him his little girl was dangerously ill—ill past all hope of recovery. Which, of course, when communicated to him, Arthur did not believe. He sent for further advice—for lying prophets, who spoke of healing when there was no chance of healing; and softly descended the staircase, whispering peace in a house where there could be no peace. And yet, what need was there for them to be cruelly conscientious—unmercifully truthful? If their words broke the force of the descending blow, kept it suspended in Heather’s sight, without absolutely crushing her heart, who may say that their subterfuges were wrong—their suggestions useless? The evil days when no telling should be required, were drawing very nigh; and there was no one, save Arthur, who remained quite blind to their approach. He had always preferred to ignore facts, if there were any treacherous, illusive, pleasant hope that his feeble nature could clutch. He was not one likely to believe there was any actual danger to be apprehended, so long as he could pay the veriest quack to come and tell him the child’s life might be saved. He hearkened to Mrs. Croft, when she assured him all mothers were alike—so easily frightened, so over-anxious, so wearisomely careful about their petted darlings. Scoffingly, almost, she would declare, that but for these “women’s fancies” doctors never could earn a living; and she insinuated that, so long as fees were to be had, it was not likely they would pronounce Lally convalescent. Possibly, she did not herself believe the child’s life was in absolute danger; but she did know, not merely that Lally was very ill, but that, by keeping Arthur so much from home, she was infusing another drop of bitterness into Heather’s cup. Had Mrs. Dudley remonstrated on the subject, which she felt far too weary and broken-spirited to attempt, there can be little question but that Mrs. Croft would have retorted, she, at all events, had no right to complain, “considering my husband is continually in Lincoln’s Inn Fields,” which was true, though, certainly, Heather could not be accused of encouraging his visits.