“Jean!” cried Margaret, aghast with grief and horror; “I thought you thought he was looking well! You said you would not have known there was anything the matter. You said--” “My dear child, did you expect me to tell _him_ that I saw death in his face? Is that the sort of thing, do you think, to let the patient know? Do you expect me to say to him-- Good gracious, child! what is the matter? What are you going to do?” “You must pour out your tea for yourselves,” said Margaret; “I am going to papa. Oh, if you think he is so ill, how can you sit and take your tea? How can you sit down and talk, and tell him you will come after dinner, as if it was nothing? You cannot mean it!” said the poor girl, “you cannot mean it! Oh! how can _you_ tell, that have seen him only once? The doctor thinks he will soon be well again; and Ludovic-- Ludovic is as old as you are--he never said a word to me.” “Ludovic thought you were too young to be told; he thought it was best for us to come first; and there are some doctors that will never tell you the truth. I don’t hold with that. I would not blurt it out to the patient to affect his spirits, but I would tell the family always. Now, Margaret, you must not go to papa with that crying face. Sit down and compose yourself. He is very well; he has got old John. You don’t suppose that I am looking for anything immediate--” “Take this; it will do you good,” said Miss Leslie, forcing upon Margaret her own cup of tea. “I will pour out another for myself.”