But in the middle of this mystery and solicitude, it happened that Annie was to get some light; for at breakfast one morning--not yet that of the expected crisis--when her father and mother were talking earnestly in an undertone to each other, all unaware that the child, as she was moving about, was watching their words and looks, much as an older victim of credulity may be supposed to hang on the cabalistic movements and incantations of a sibyl, the attentive little listener eagerly drank in every word of the following conversation:-- “The doctor is so doubtful,” said the anxious mother, with a tear in her eye, “that I have scarcely any hope; and if she is taken away, the very look of Annie, left alone ‘bleating for her sister lamb,’ will break my heart altogether.” “Yes,” rejoined Mr Maconie, “it would be hard to bear; but,”--and it was the first time since Mary’s illness he had ever remembered the insurance,--“it was wise that I insured poor Mary’s life in the Pelican.” “Insured her life in the Pelican!” echoed the wife, in a higher tone. “That was at least lucky; but, oh! I hope we will not need to have our grief solaced by that comfort in affliction for many a day.” And this colloquy had scarcely been finished when the doctor entered, having gone previously into the invalid’s room, with a very mournful expression upon his face; nor did his words make that expression any more bearable, as he said-- “I am sorry to say I do not like Mary’s appearance so well to-day. I fear it is to be one of those cases where we cannot discover anything like a crisis at all; indeed, I have doubts about this old theory being applicable to this kind of fever, where the virus goes on gradually working to the end.” “The end!” echoed Mrs Maconie; “then, doctor, I fear you see what that will be.” “I would not like to say,” added he; “but I fear you must make up your mind for the worst.”