"Well--there might be more flesh upon his bones," was all the surgeon answered, his tone bordering upon jocularity rather than dismay. Doubtless he knew what he was about. "I thought, if any one could do him good, it was you," said Mrs. St. John. "The doctors here say they cannot; the physicians I had over from London said they could not, and went back again: and then I sent for you." "Ah, yes," answered Mr. Pym, in an unmeaning tone. "I'm glad to see my little friend again. Georgy and I always got on well together, except on the score of physic. Do you remember those powders, Georgy, that you and I used to have a battle over?" "Don't I!" answered Georgy. "But you won--you made me take them." The surgeon laughed. "Can you give him some powders now?" asked Mrs. St. John; and there was nothing of eagerness in her voice and manner, only in her glittering eyes. "I'm not sure that it is exactly powders he requires now," was the answer, spoken in evasion. "We'll see." Mrs. St. John walked to the distant window and stood there. For a moment her face was pressed against its cold glass, as one whose brow is in pain; the next, she stood up--tall, haughty, commanding; not a symptom of care upon her handsome face, not a shade of sorrow in her resolute eye. It is very probable that this enforced self-control, persisted in as long as Mr. Pym was at Ypres, cost her more than even he dreamt of. Turning her head, she beckoned to the surgeon. Mr. Pym, waiting only to cover George with the silken coverlet, for the boy had settled down on his pillow exhausted, and seemed inclined to sleep, approached her. The house on this side faced the green fields; there was no noise, no bustle; all that was on the other side. A quaint old Flemish tower and clock, from which the hands were gone, stared them in the face at a field's distance: the Flemish cook had tried to make Prance understand that it was about to be taken down, when that fastidious lady's-maid protested against its ugliness. "I have sent for you for two purposes, Mr. Pym," began Mrs. St. John, taking a seat, and motioning the surgeon to another, both of them beyond the reach of George's ears. "The medical men I have called in to him, say, or intimate, that he cannot live; they left one by one, all saying it. The two who attend him regularly were here this morning. I saw them go out whispering, and I know _they_ were saying it. I have sent for you to confirm or dispute this: you know what is the constitution of the St. Johns, and are acquainted with his. Must George die?"