"Dying," I put in, flippantly. "Why don't you say it? I shan't go to my grave a moment sooner through your mentioning the unpleasant word." "You will see him, Phyllis?" "Oh, if he is really coining, I suppose I must. But, I warn you, I shall take no nasty, stuffs, politely called tonics, and I will not go abroad." In this amiable frame of mind I prepare myself to receive the great London doctor. As the servant ushers him into my room, I rise and bow, and am much relieved at finding myself in the presence of a small, homely, jolly-looking little man, with none of the signs of greatness about him. He examines my chest, and asks a question or two that would certainly suggest themselves to an idiot. He thumps me here and pats me there, hums and haws, and finally says I want "tone." "And change of air, my dear Mrs. Carrington, A little pleasure trip, now--just a little run through all the old spots we know so well--and then a winter at Pau or even a degree further south, is all that we want, eh?" "I will take your tonics," I say, giving in so far, "but," determinately, "I will not take change of air. I am happy here: I will not leave it." "Dear! dear!" ejaculated Sir James, soothingly, giving me another tap: "how people differ! Most young ladies, now, would do almost anything for me, if I would only order them to Pau. Such a lively place, my dear Mrs. Carrington, so invigorating, so gay; just the very thing for a woman so young, and, let me add, so very charming, as yourself. Now pray do reconsider it." I laugh, and glance at myself in an opposite mirror. A white face, lean jaws, large unnatural eyes, and pallid lips meet my view. I am altogether unlovely. "I shall get well enough here," I say, obstinately. "You may order me every nasty concoction you can think of, and I will promise you to drink and eat them all; but go from Hazelton I will not." "Well, well, we shall see how you get on," replies Sir James, cajolingly, patting my hand. He deals in pats and gentle reassuring nods, but he is a dear old man and I feel some faint regret that he should leave thinking me unreasonable. He does leave me, however, presently and seeks my husband, doubtless to pour into his ears all the unpalatable things he is too gallant to say to me. No more is said to me on the subject. I have evidently conquered. Marmaduke returns to London, taking a run down every now and then to see how I am getting on. I am not getting on at all. I am simply stationary, and am no whit more beautiful to behold than when first his astonished eyes fell upon me, now more than a mouth ago. --- I have wandered listlessly down by the sea. It is a dreary day, raw, chill, unsummerlike. I shiver vaguely as I go, and wish the night would come to bring us nearer to a more congenial day. All around is mist, and cheerless damp. Gray sky, gray earth, gray clouds that cover land and sea: and, oh! gray shadow lying on my heart, how gray art thou!