“And I 'm sorry, too. I could have broken the bad news to him, perhaps, better than--I mean--oh, dear! if I begin coughing, I shall never cease. Would you mind my taking my drops? They are only aconite and lettuce; and if I might ask for a little fresh water. I 'm so sorry to be troublesome.” Though all anxiety to know to what bad news he referred, she hastened to order the glass of water he desired, and calmly resumed her seat. “It 's spasmodic,--this cough. I don't know if that be any advantage, or the reverse; but the doctor says 'only spasmodic,' which would lead one to suppose it might be worse. Would you do me the great favor to drop thirty-five--be sure only thirty-five--of these? I hope your hand does not shake?” “No, Sir Marcus. It is very steady.” “What a pretty hand it is! How taper your fingers are; but you have these dimples at the knuckles they say are such signs of cruelty.” “Oh, Sir Marcus!” “Yes, they say so. Nana Sahib had them, and that woman--there, there, you have given me thirty-seven.” “No, I assure you, Sir Marcus, only thirty-five. I'm a practised hand at dropping medicine. My brother used to have violent headaches.” “And you always measured his drops, did you?” “Always. I 'm quite a clever nurse, I assure you.” “Oh, dear! do you say so?” And as he laid down his glass he looked at her with an expression of interest and admiration, which pushed her gravity to its last limit. “I don't believe a word about the cruelty they ascribe to those dimples. I pledge you my word of honor I do not,” said he, seriously. “I 'm sincerely glad to hear you say so,” said she, trying to seem grave. “And is your brother much of an invalid?” “Not now. The damp climate of Ireland gave him headaches; but he rarely has them here.” “Ah, and you have such a quiet way of moving about; that gentle gliding step, so soothing to the sick. Oh, you don't know what a boon it is; and the common people never have it, nor can they acquire it. When you went to ring the bell, I said to myself, 'That 's it,--that's what all the teaching in the world cannot impart.'” “You will make me very vain, Sir Marcus. All the more that you give me credit for merits I never suspected.” “Have you a cold hand?” asked he, with a look of eagerness. “I really don't know. Perhaps I have.” “If I might dare. Ah,” said he, with much feeling, as he touched her hand in the most gentle manner--“ah! that is the greatest gift of nature A small hand, perfect in form, beautiful in color, and cold as marble.” Julia could resist no longer, but laughed out one of those pleasant merry laughs whose music make an echo in the heart.