Her hand was on my arm, and I shook it off roughly. 'Who is the just one? Uncle Bryan? I will talk to you no more. How is mother?' 'Go up and see; but tread softly. You are not the only sufferer--remember that.' I went upstairs, and into my mother's room, softly. Josey West followed me. 'Mother,' I said. She opened her eyes and looked at me vacantly. She did not know me; even when I took her hand, and fondled it in mine, she showed no sign of recognition. Then a feeling of desolation, more terrible than any pain I had yet suffered, entered my heart, and I fell on my knees by her side. Was I to lose her next? It seemed so. Her white pitiful face, her parched restless lips, her mournful eyes gazing on vacancy, her hot skin, were like so many tongues reproaching me for my selfishness. 'For God's sake tell me, Josey,' I whispered, 'how long has she been like this?' 'The change came a little while after the doctor left. She bore up while he was here, and tried to answer him cheerfully; but when he was gone, she broke down.' 'Did she speak, Josey.' 'A little at first.' 'What about?' 'Only about you, Chris; but I cannot tell you what she said. They were only broken words of tenderness----' Josey turned from me, and could not continue for her tears. 'Did you not go for the doctor again, Josey?' 'I could not leave her, Chris.' 'Uncle Bryan might have gone--' I knocked at his door, and called him again and again; but I got no answer.' I went at once to his room, and knocked, but no answer came. I tried the handle, and found that the door was unlocked. I entered the room, and struck a light. Uncle Bryan was not there, and his bed had not been lain upon. I went downstairs into my own bedroom, and searched the house swiftly; uncle Bryan was not in it. Did you see him go out, Josey?' 'No; I have not seen him since you left.' 'I must run for the doctor. Will you stop here?' 'I'll stop, Chris, and do all I can to help you.' I pressed her hand, and within half an hour the doctor was at my mother's bedside. I waited below until he came down. 'If you will walk back with me,' he said, will give you some medicine for your mother.' 'Is she very ill, sir?' 'Very.' My heart sank as I asked, 'Dangerously?' 'I think so, but we shall know more in a day or two.' 'Then there is no immediate danger, sir?' 'I think not--I think not; but we must be prepared for the worst.' He said something more than this, but I did not hear him. A mist stole upon my senses, for his quiet tone portended the worst. 'Bear up, Mr. Carey,' he said; 'you must not give way. We will do our best. A great deal will depend upon good nursing. That is a sensible little woman who is with her now.' This doctor was a man who was deservedly worshipped by the poor in our neighbourhood; his life was really one of self-sacrifice, for he was a capable man, was paid badly, worked hard, and did his duty bravely. 'Can you tell me what she is suffering from, sir?'