Not a sign of emotion was there about her. _Could_ this be the same woman whose excitement for months had been a world's wonder, whose anguish, when uncontrolled, had been a terror to her servants? She sat with an impassive face, her tones measured, her voice cold and calm. One very small sign of restlessness there was, and it lay in her fingers. A thin cambric handkerchief was between them, and she was stealthily pulling at one of its corners: when the interview was over, the fine texture of threads had given way, leaving a broad hole there. Mr. Pym knew that the child must die: it had required but one moment's glance to see that the angel of death was already on the wing, but to say this to Mrs. St. John might be neither kind nor expedient. He was beginning some evasive reply, when she stopped him peremptorily. "I sent for you to know the truth, and you must tell it me. Must George die?" That she was in no mood to be trifled with, the surgeon saw. To attempt it might not be wise. Besides, the signs on George's face were such this day, that she must see what the truth was as clearly as he saw it. "I think him very ill, Mrs. St. John. He is in danger." "That is not a decisive answer yet. _Can't_ you give me one?--you have come far enough to do it. Will he die?" "I fear he will." "He has gone too far to recover? He will shortly----" A momentary pause, but she recovered instantly. "A few hours will see the end?" "I do not say that. A few days will no doubt see it." Mrs. St. John looked across at the handless clock, as if asking why it did not go on. The surgeon glanced at her face, and was thankful for its composure. She resumed: "Then the other motive with which I sent for you need scarcely be entered upon. It was, that you, who have watched him from his birth, might perhaps suggest some cure that the others could not." "Some mode of treatment, I dare say you mean, Mrs. St. John. No, I fear nothing would have been effectual. I could not save his father; there is no probability that I could have saved him." "Why is it that the St. Johns of Alnwick die in this way?" she returned, her voice taking a passionate tone. "Nay," returned Mr. Pym, soothingly, "none may question the will of God. It is not given to us always to discern causes: we see here through a glass darkly. Of one thing we may ever rest assured, Mrs. St. John--that at the Great Final clearance we shall see how merciful God has been, how all happened for the best." "Is he dying of the same wasting disease that his father died of?" she resumed after a pause. "Or of--of--of what he took the evening of the birthday dinner?" "What did he take the evening of the birthday dinner?" returned Mr. Pym, asking the question in surprise. "He took nothing then, that I know of." "He took a fright--if nothing else. _I_ have never understood what it was that ailed him."