Mrs. Rushmere had for several months complained of a sharp stinging pain between her shoulders, caused by a very small and apparently insignificant tumour. "Too small," the old lady said, "to make a fuss about." She had, however, several times lately remarked to Dorothy, "that the provoking thing caused her much inconvenience." Always having enjoyed excellent health, Dorothy was very ignorant of the nature of diseases, but thinking that something must be wrong with her mother, she had urged her very strongly to show the cause of her uneasiness to Dr. Davy, the medical practitioner of Storby. This the old lady had promised to do, but had put it off from day to day. When Dorothy returned from her walk with Mr. Fitzmorris, she was greatly alarmed at finding Mrs. Rushmere in her bed, with traces of tears still wet upon her cheeks. "My darling mother, what is the matter?" cried the affectionate girl, stooping over the bed and kissing her tenderly. "Are you ill?" "More in mind than body," returned the good woman, trying to smile. "Oh, Dolly, dear, that tumour pained me so this afternoon, that I got father to drive me over to see the doctor." "Well, and what did he say?" asked Dorothy, eagerly. Mrs. Rushmere's lips quivered. "Dolly, I don't like to tell you. It will grieve you sore." Dorothy looked alarmed, and turned very pale, as she clasped her mother's hand tighter in her own. "He said it was a cancer." The old lady spoke slowly and with difficulty. "That it had been suffered to go too far, and at my age any operation in such a dangerous part was useless." There was a long pause, only broken by the low sobbing of the two women. "I don't mind dying, Dolly dear," continued Mrs. Rushmere, gathering courage to speak at last. "But oh, my pet! it is such a cruel death." "May God give you strength to bear it, my dear mother," said Dorothy. "This is sad news; it cuts me to the heart." "I hope I may be spared to see Gilly again," continued Mrs. Rushmere, for a moment forgetful of her sad fate. "The doctor said that I might live for months, or even for years; but I only want to live long enough to look into his face once more." After lying very still for a few minutes, she turned piteously to Dorothy, and continued-- "Dolly, if Gilbert should repent of his unkindness to you, would you forgive him?" "Dear mother, I have done that long ago. How could I ask God to forgive me, and harbour resentment against anyone?" "But would you marry him, if he wished it?" Dorothy was silent. She felt in her heart that she no longer wished to be Gilbert Rushmere's wife, yet she did not wish to agitate Mrs. Rushmere, by giving a flat negative to her question. Her inward retrospection was interrupted by Mrs. Rushmere sinking back on her pillow, and gasping out, in a faint voice, "Dorothy, you no longer love him?" "Dear mother, these are useless and cruel questions. Gilbert will never put me to the trial of refusing him." "But if a' did?"