"My dear madam, I couldn't think of it," he returned,--I thought from unwillingness to incommode a strange household. "An invalid like her, sweet lamb!" he went on, "requires so many little comforts and peculiar contrivances to entice the repose she so greatly needs, that--that--in short, I must get her home." "Where do you live?" I asked, not sorry to find his intention of going so fixed. "We have a house in Warrior Square," he answered. "We live in London, but have been here all the past winter. I doubt if she improves, though. I doubt--I doubt." He said the last words in a yet lower and more mournful whisper; then, with a shake of his head, turned and gazed again through the window. A peculiar little cough from the sofa made us both look round. Mrs. Cromwell was awake, and searching for her handkerchief. Her husband understood her movements, and hurried to her assistance. When she took the handkerchief from her mouth, there was a red spot upon it. Mr. Cromwell's face turned the color of lead; but his wife looked up at him, and smiled; a sweet, consciously pathetic smile. "He has sent for me," she said. "The messenger has come." Her husband made no answer. His eyes seemed starting from his head. "Who is your medical man?" I asked him. He told me, and I sent off my housemaid to fetch him. It was a long hour before he arrived; during which, as often as I peeped in, I saw him sitting silent, and holding her hand, until the last time, when I found him reading a hymn to her. She was apparently once more asleep. Nothing could be more favorable to her recovery than such quietness of both body and mind. When the doctor came, and had listened to Mr. Cromwell's statement, he proceeded to examine her chest with much care. That over, he averred in her hearing that he found nothing serious; but told her husband apart that there was considerable mischief, and assured me afterwards that her lungs were all but gone, and that she could not live beyond a month or two. She had better be removed to her own house, he said, as speedily as possible. "But it would be cruelty to send her out a day like this," I returned. "Yes, yes: I did not mean that," he said. "But to-morrow, perhaps. You'll see what the weather is like. Is Mrs. Cromwell an old friend?" "I never saw her until to-day," I replied. "Ah!" he remarked, and said no more. We got her to bed as soon as possible. I may just mention that I never saw any thing to equal the _point-devise_ of her underclothing. There was not a stitch of cotton about her, using the word _stitch_ in its metaphorical sense. But, indeed, I doubt whether her garments were not all made with linen thread. Even her horse-hair petticoat was quilted with rose-colored silk inside. "Surely she has no children!" I said to myself; and was right, as my mother-readers will not be surprised to learn.