“Yes, I remember the case, I think,” said Dr. Morse; “incipient phthisis, I believe. Just let me look it up; yes, that was it; anæmia, also; I gave her a tonic.” “Phthisis?” Sara repeated, her color paling. “Oh, Dr. Morse, doesn’t that mean--consumption?” “Not yet,” he answered, with all the cheerfulness of scientific indifference. “It will doubtless develop into consumption.” “But that means she will _die_?” Sara said, her dark eyes full of fear. “Oh, is it as bad as that?” Her lip trembled. The young man looked at her with attention. “I am sorry I told you so abruptly; I did not realize that the young woman was anything to you, personally; and I assure you the case is not hopeless.” “Is there any hope? Oh, Dr. Morse, it is so awful to think of her dying _now_! What must be done? How uneven things are! There was I, a strong, well woman, down in Florida, and this poor girl”-- “There is perhaps some difference in the value of the two lives,” the doctor objected, smiling. Sara brushed this aside as unworthy of an answer. “What can we do?” “Well, I suppose if she could go away into the country, and live a quiet, regular life, with plenty of milk to drink, and plenty of fresh air and proper exercise, she would at least be greatly benefited. Possibly cured. There are no marked lesions, I think, in the lung.” Sara listened with frowning intentness; then she drew a long breath of relief. “I am so thankful that it is not hopeless. But I think that--that in prescribing for her, I mean planning for her, you ought to know--all there is to know, about her.” “Yes, that is advisable,” the doctor agreed easily. The charming color of her cheek, the bunch of violets on her shoulder, her beautiful, troubled brown eyes, were not lost upon this young man. “I thought her a vain little thing,” he went on, “and rather brutal to the good woman who was taking care of her. But illness makes us all selfish.” “I am afraid she is vain, poor child,” Sara said, “and selfish, too, rather. But the worst of it is, she has--she has not been good, Dr. Morse.” “Ah!” said the young man. “I did hope she had reformed, but while I was away--it happened again.” “I see. I see.” “Of course, in sending her away that has to be considered. She must be among people who will do her good.” “And to whom she will not do harm.” Sara looked a little startled. “Of course; but I had not thought of that.” “It seems to me that is very important,” he said, smiling. “Speaking of sending people away, I wish I might tell you of another case which needs the country; or are your hands too full to consider any one else?” “Alas, it is my purse which is not full,” she said ruefully; “but is it very bad?” “It is a poor soul, a hard-working, honest little creature, who has an old mother and an imbecile brother to support; and she’s nearly at an end of her strength. She needs to be braced up.”