"It is no prejudice, doctor. I had an uncle once, and he was like one of they dried things they call mummies and show in museums; and people said if you could see his inside it would be all shrivelled up like an old walnut, and I am sure that never was in our family. It was all India; he was a soldier, poor man, and had gone through a deal." Dr. Burns had no time to carry on the discussion: he was professionally anxious about Grace, she was still so feverish, and, though the acute pain was lessened, her cough was most distressing, and her weakness very great. "Have you no one to come and help you?" he asked Margaret one day when he had found her worn out, suffering acutely from headache, and in a very depressed state. "No one," she answered, in a low voice. "I did propose some one to my sister, but she says if she came she would get much worse." "It is really thoughtless, and, I may say, selfish of her," he said, earnestly. "If my wife were at home I should send her to help you; let me try and get a nurse for you?" "Oh, no!" said Margaret, earnestly and very eagerly. "I cannot--we cannot afford the expense. I am doing my best, my sister does not suffer from my want of experience," and she looked up very fearfully. "I am not thinking of her so much as of you," he said, bluntly. Then he went on, in a matter-of-fact tone--"Your sister is better; the pain is lessened, but the fever still runs high. I do not think she is so strong as you are. What did your mother die of? do you know? She died when you were a baby in India, Mrs. Munro tells me, probably of some fever, did she not?" "She died of consumption," said Margaret, who did not for a moment see the connection of ideas. Then it flashed across her, and she said, clasping her hands, and in a perfect agony of feeling--"You do not--you cannot--think Grace so ill. Oh! tell me, tell me;" and, weakened by her long watching and hastily-taken meals, she lost her self-command, and cried pitifully. "I am sorry to have frightened you," said Dr. Burns, who understood her tears, and who, while full of sympathy, spoke in that calm tone which quelled her excitement better than a show of kindness might have done. "There is no danger at present, absolutely none; but there is great weakness, and very great delicacy." "What should we do? What ought she to do?" asked Margaret, struggling for her self-command, ashamed of having so completely lost it. "When she is able for it, she ought to go to some drier climate," he said, looking at the window, where, every now and again, the raindrops came with a vicious splash, "and, forgive me Miss Rivers, but you cannot command many comforts here. Why do you not write to Mr. Sandford." "That we cannot do, least of all for Grace!" poor Margaret said unguardedly.