“I come to ask your opinion, sir, on the state of my heart,” she said; “and I am recommended by a patient, who has consulted you with advantage to herself.” She placed a card on the doctor’s writing-desk, and added: “I have become acquainted with the lady, by being one of the lodgers in her house.” The doctor recognized the name--and the usual proceedings ensued. After careful examination, he arrived at a favorable conclusion. “I may tell you at once,” he said--“there is no reason to be alarmed about the state of your heart.” “I have never felt any alarm about myself,” she answered quietly. “A sudden death is an easy death. If one’s affairs are settled, it seems, on that account, to be the death to prefer. My object was to settle _my_ affairs--such as they are--if you had considered my life to be in danger. Is there nothing the matter with me?” “I don’t say that,” the doctor replied. “The action of your heart is very feeble. Take the medicine that I shall prescribe; pay a little more attention to eating and drinking than ladies usually do; don’t run upstairs, and don’t fatigue yourself by violent exercise--and I see no reason why you shouldn’t live to be an old woman.” “God forbid!” the lady said to herself. She turned away, and looked out of the window with a bitter smile. Doctor Allday wrote his prescription. “Are you likely to make a long stay in London?” he asked. “I am here for a little while only. Do you wish to see me again?” “I should like to see you once more, before you go away--if you can make it convenient. What name shall I put on the prescription?” “Miss Jethro.” “A remarkable name,” the doctor said, in his matter-of-fact way. Miss Jethro’s bitter smile showed itself again. Without otherwise noticing what Doctor Allday had said, she laid the consultation fee on the table. At the same moment, the footman appeared with a letter. “From Miss Emily Brown,” he said. “No answer required.” He held the door open as he delivered the message, seeing that Miss Jethro was about to leave the room. She dismissed him by a gesture; and, returning to the table, pointed to the letter. “Was your correspondent lately a pupil at Miss Ladd’s school?” she inquired. “My correspondent has just left Miss Ladd,” the doctor answered. “Are you a friend of hers?” “I am acquainted with her.” “You would be doing the poor child a kindness, if you would go and see her. She has no friends in London.” “Pardon me--she has an aunt.” “Her aunt died a week since.” “Are there no other relations?” “None. A melancholy state of things, isn’t it? She would have been absolutely alone in the house, if I had not sent one of my women servants to stay with her for the present. Did you know her father?” Miss Jethro passed over the question, as if she had not heard it. “Has the young lady dismissed her aunt’s servants?” she asked.