“Could a man of eminence be found to go out there and see him?” “A man in large practice could not spare the time; but there are men of ability who are not yet in high repute: one of these might be possibly induced.” “And what might the expense be?” “A couple of hundred--say three hundred pounds, would perhaps suffice.” “Go upstairs and see my granddaughter. She is very nervous and feverish; calm her mind so far as you are able; say that we are concerting measures for her brother's benefit; and by the time you shall come down again I will have made up my mind what to do.” Beattie was a valued friend of Lucy's, and she was glad to see him enter her room, but she would not suffer him to speak of herself; it was of poor Tom alone she would talk. She heard with delight the generous intentions of her grandfather, and exclaimed with rapture,--“This is his real nature, and yet it is only by the little foibles of his temper that the world knows him; but we, doctor,--we, who see him as he is, know how noble-hearted and affectionate he can be!” “I must hasten back to him,” said Beattie, after a short space; “for should he decide on sending out a doctor, I must lose no time, as I must return to see this young fellow at Killaloe to-morrow.” “Oh, in my greater anxieties I forgot him! How is he,--can he recover?” “Yes, I regard him as out of danger,--that is, if Lady Trafford can be persuaded not to talk him into a relapse.” “Lady Trafford! who is she?” “His mother; she arrived last night.” “And his name is Trafford, and his Christian name Lionel?” “Lionel Wentworth Trafford. I took it from his dressing-case when I prescribed for him.” Lucy had been leaning on her arm as she spoke, but she now sank slowly backward and fainted. It was a long time before consciousness came back, and even then she lay voiceless and motionless, and, though she heard what Beattie said to her, unable to speak to him, or intimate by a gesture that she heard him. The doctor needed no confidences,--he read the whole story. There are expressions in the human face which have no reference to physical ills; nor are there any indications of bodily suffering. He who asked, “Canst thou minister to a mind diseased?” knew how hopeless was his question; and this very despair it is--this sense of an affliction beyond the reach of art--gives a character to the expression which the doctor's eye never fails to discriminate from the look worn by mere malady. As she lay there motionless, her large eyes looking at him with that expression in which eagerness struggles against debility, he saw how he had become her confidant. “Come, my dear child,” said he, taking her hand between both his own, “you have no occasion for fears on this score,--so far I assure you on my honor.”