“Poor child!” said he kindly, “I have been expecting this.” The action expressing sympathy just when she needed it so much caused her tears to flow afresh, but less tumultuously than before. The remains of Mrs. Grey’s lunch were standing on a side‐table, and the good doctor poured out a glass of wine, which Assunta took obediently. Then, making an effort at self‐control, she said: “Please do not waste a moment on me. Do go to Mr. Carlisle; he seems very ill. I have been weak and foolish, but I will control myself better next time.” “I have just left Mr. Carlisle’s room,” replied the doctor. “I will not deceive you. He is, as you say, very ill; but I hope we may save him yet. You must call up all your courage, for you will be much needed to‐night.” He knew by the effect that he had touched the right chord, so he continued: “And now, Miss Howard, I am going to ask of you the favor to send one of your servants to my house, to notify my wife that I shall not return to‐night. I will not leave you until the crisis is passed—successfully, I hope,” he added with a smile. Assunta went at once to give the desired order, relieved and grateful that they would have the support of the physician’s presence and skill; and yet the very fact of his remaining discouraged the hope he had tried to inspire. When she had gone, he turned to address a few comforting words to Mrs. Grey, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he said: “By the way, Mrs. Grey, I forgot to tell you that I met Mr. Sinclair down‐ stairs, and he begged me to inquire if you had received a message from him. Can I be of service in taking him your reply?” “O poor man! I quite forgot him,” exclaimed the easily diverted Clara, as she stooped to pick up the neglected flowers. “Thank you for your kind offer, but I had better run down myself, and apologize for my apparent rudeness.” And, hastily wiping her eyes, she threw a shawl over her shoulders and a becoming white _rigolette_ about her head, and with a graceful bow of apology she left the room. “Extraordinary woman!” thought the doctor. “One would suppose that a dying brother would be an excuse, even to that puppy Sinclair. I wish he had had to wait longer—it wouldn’t have hurt him a bit—he has never had half enough of it to do. And what the devil is he coming here for now, anyhow?” he added to his former charitable reflections, as he went to join Assunta in her faithful vigil beside the unconscious and apparently dying man. Mr. Sinclair met Mrs. Grey at the foot of the stairs with an assumption of interest and anxiety which successfully concealed his inward impatience. But truly it would have been difficult to resist that appealing face, with its traces of recent tears and the flush caused by excited feeling.