The old white-haired physician came with him at once--Ratty, the horse, never once causing trouble; and Netta gave the messenger a grateful smile, as she saw the mission upon which he had been. Then, with his mind in a whirl, Richard waited to see the physician, taking him over into his own rooms, that his questions might be unheard. "But she will recover?" said Richard, eagerly. The old physician shook his head. "It is but a matter of time," he said, gravely. "I can do nothing. Quiet, change, nutritious food, are the best doctors for a case like hers. A southern climate might benefit her a little; but it would be cruelty to send her away from home, and might do more harm than good. The poor girl is in a deep decline." Richard was alone. What an end to the pleasant day he had projected!-- one which should do his poor little neighbour good, and wherein at the same time he could quietly tell her of his position, and so stop at once any nascent idea she might have that he was seeking to win her love. How could he know, he asked himself, that matters had gone so far--that the poor child really cared for him--for him, who had not a disloyal thought to Valentina Rea; who, like the poor sufferer, lay that night wakeful, and with a weary, gnawing pain at her heart--in the one case mingled of hopeless misery, in the other tinged with bitterness, and a feeling new to her--anger against the author of her pain. Thus the days glided by, with Netta lying dangerously ill, too weak to be moved. Richard was over a dozen times a day, asking after her health, and he had insisted upon Mrs Lane taking money for the necessities of the case. Then came a day when a fly stopped at the door; and Richard from his window, expecting to see a fresh doctor, saw a quiet-looking man step out, enter, stay a quarter of an hour, and then return; and when, an hour later, he went over himself, it was to find Mrs Lane deeply agitated, and with traces of tears upon her face; but she made no confidant of him. At last, while he was sitting writing one day, there came a letter for him, with Frank Pratt for bearer. It had come to his chambers by post, he said, enclosed in another, asking him to forward it. Frank went away as soon as he had delivered it, seeming troubled; and on Richard opening the note, he found these words:-- "I think it right to tell you what you have done, though no one knows that I have written. I did trust you, Richard Trevor; for I thought you a true, good man, who would be as faithful to my dear sister as she would have been to you. If any one had told me you would give her up directly for somebody else, I could have struck him. But I'll tell you what you've done, for you ought to know it for your punishment: you've broken the heart of the dearest, sweetest sister that ever lived, and I hate you with all mine. "Fin Rea. "P.S.--Tiny's very ill, almost seriously, and all through you."