I don't know what o'clock it was when the doctor came. There is something of the character of sternness in the brief questions, the low tone, and the silent inspection that mark his last visit to the sick-room. What is more terrible than the avowed helplessness that follows, and his evident acquiescence in the inevitable? "Don't go. Oh, don't go yet; wait till I come back, only a few minutes; there might be a change, and something might be done." I entreated; I was going up to mamma's room; I had come down with him to the drawing-room. "Well, my dear, I'll wait." He looked at his watch. "I'll remain with you for ten minutes." I suppose I looked very miserable, for I saw a great compassion in his face. He was very good-natured, and he added, placing his hand upon my arm, and looking gently in my face, "But, my poor child, you must not flatter yourself with hopes, for I have none--there are none." But what so headstrong and so persistent as hope? Terrible must be that place where it never comes. I had scarcely left the drawing-room, when Sir Harry Rokestone, of the kindly change in whom I had spoken to our good doctor, knocked at the hall-door. Our rustic maid, Anne Owen, who was crying, let him in, and told him the sudden news; he laid his hand against the door-post and grew pale. He did not say a word for as long as you might count twenty, then he asked: "Is the doctor here?" The girl led the way to the drawing-room. "Bad news, doctor?" said the tall old man, in an agitated voice, as he entered, with his eyes fixed on Sir Jacob Lake. "My name is Rokestone--Sir Harry Rokestone. Tell me, is it so bad as the servant says? You have not given her up?" The doctor shook his head; he advanced slowly a step or two to meet Sir Harry, and said, in a low tone: "Mrs. Ware is dying--sinking very fast." Sir Harry walked to the mantelpiece, laid his hand on it, and stood there without moving. After a little he turned again, and came to Sir Jacob Lake. "You London doctors--you're so hurried," he said, a little wildly, "from place to place. I think--I think--look, doctor; save her! save her, man!"--he caught the doctor's wrist in his hand--"and I'll make your fortune. Ye need never do an hour's work more. Man was never so rewarded, not for a queen." The doctor looked very much offended; but, coarse as the speech was, it was delivered with a pathetic and simple vehemence that disarmed him. "You mistake me, sir," he said. "I take a very deep interest in this case. I have known Mrs. Ware from the time when she came to live in London. I hope I do my duty in every case, but in this I have been particularly anxious, and I do assure you, if----What's that?" It was, as Shakespeare says, "a cry of women," the sudden shrilly clamour of female voices heard through distant doors. The doctor opened the door, and stood at the foot of the stairs. "Ay, that's it," he said, shaking his head a little. "It's all over."