The fifth week had begun, and the fight of life and death on the boy’s wasted frame was becoming every hour more intense. Would his strength hold out? “He has no strength,” said the night nurse. “I feel every hour as if from minute to minute the collapse must come.” “I don’t say he isn’t very weak,” said the more cheerful sister, “but you never can tell with a delicate boy like that how strong the constitution may be. Sometimes it’s like iron and steel, and yet no appearance.” The doctor stood and looked at the worn young countenance upon the pillow. Mar had scarcely strength to open his eyes, to respond to the doctor’s inquiries and acknowledge the stir of his morning visit. There was a faint smile upon his face, and sometimes a wistful look round upon the group about his bed, moving slowly from one to another. His mind had never been affected. Sometimes he lay as if in a dream, but when recalled was “always himself” the nurse said, “and that is surely a good sign.” Dr. Barker did not deny that it was a good sign, but he looked graver than ever. Letitia devoured him with eager eyes when they stood face to face outside the sick room. “What do you think, doctor?” she said. “I have told you a hundred times what I think,” he replied, with the petulance of distress. “I cannot form a new opinion every hour. If his strength holds out he will do well. All depends upon that. I suppose,” he added hastily, “his mother has been kept informed.” “His mother--what does she care?” said Letitia in her excitement. “It is a great thing to us, but it is nothing to her.” “Yes, I can see it is a great thing to you,” he answered, with a clouded countenance. “But she has been told I suppose?” “Oh, what does it matter? What does it matter?” Letitia said within herself in the misery of her suspense. But she wrung her hands till they hurt her, and controlled herself. “I believe news has been sent,” she said. “But that is not enough,” said the doctor, glad on his side to have some reason to find fault, to relieve his own brain and heart with an outburst. “She must be told that his state is very serious. She must be made to know----” “Then you think his state is very serious?” said Letitia, with a kind of wildness of concealed exultation in her eyes. “Have I ever said otherwise?” said the doctor. “Can anyone look at him and not see that?--very grave but not hopeless, Mrs. Parke. You will never get me to say more.” “It is only because I want to know the truth,” she said, abashed. “I will never tell you anything but the truth. The mother ought to know. However indifferent she may be there must be some human feeling left. I remember her as a very sweet woman. And then there was the aunt who was devoted to the boy.” “You speak as if there was but one,” said Letitia, with a forced smile.