"Pooh! A momentary childish fright, and a fit of indigestion," said the surgeon, lightly. "They are not things to injure a boy permanently." "He has never been well since," she said, in low tones. "Never for an hour." "The disease must have been stealing upon him then, I suppose, and the little derangement to the system that night brought out its first symptoms," observed Mr. Pym. "Who knows but he might have caught it from his father during the latter's illness?" "You think, then, that nothing could have saved him?" "I think it could not. Where there is a strong tendency to hereditary disease, it is sure to show itself." "And--I have not taken him about too much? It has not injured him?" "I hope not," cheerfully replied Mr. Pym. Where was the use of his saying it had, whatever his opinion might be? She had her finger right up through the hole in the handkerchief now, and was looking at it--at the finger, not the hole. Mr. Pym watched every turn of her features, seeming to keep his eyes quite the other way. "What right had George St. John to marry?" she suddenly cried. "If people know themselves liable to any disease that cuts off life, they should keep single; and so let the curse die out." "Ay, if people would! Some have married who had a less right to do so than George St. John." The remark seemed to have escaped him unwittingly. Mrs. St. John turned her eyes upon him, and he hastened to resume: "No blame could attach to your husband for marrying, Mrs. St. John. When he did so, he was, to all appearance, a hale, healthy man." "He might have suspected that the waste would come upon him. It had killed the St. Johns of Alnwick who had gone before him." "It had killed one or two of them. But how was George St. John to know that it would attack him? He might have inherited his mother's constitution: hers was a sound one." "And why--and why--could not Georgy inherit mine?" The pauses were evidently made to recall calmness, to subdue the rebellious breath, which was shortening. A very peculiar expression momentarily crossed the surgeon's face. "All is for the best, Mrs. St. John. _Rely upon it_." A little feeble voice was calling out for mamma, and Mr. Pym hastily quitted his seat at the sound. Any one might have said he was glad of the interruption. The child's sweet blue eyes were raised as the surgeon bent over him, and his wan lips parted with a smile. "Best as it is; oh, thank God, best as it is!" he murmured to himself, as he gently drew the once pretty curls from the white and wasted brow, and suffered his hand to rest there. "A short time, and then--one of God's angels. _Here_, had he lived--better not think of it. All's for the best." The surgeon remained twenty-four hours at Ypres, and then took his departure. Not once, during all that time, was Mrs. St. John off her guard, or did she lose her self-possession.