involved his saying over again, in substance,
what he had already said in speaking of the
motive which had forced Sarah to part from
him at Truro.

With last words such as those, the sad and
simple story of the old man came to an end.
After waiting a little to recover her self-
possession and to steady her voice, Rosamond
touched her husband to draw his attention to
herself, and whispered to him—

"I may say all, now, that I wished to say
at Porthgenna?"

"All," he answered. "If you can trust
yourself, Rosamond, it is fittest that he should
hear it from your lips."

After the first natural burst of astonishment
was over, the effect of the disclosure of
the Secret on Uncle Joseph exhibited the
most striking contrast that can be imagined
to the effect of it on Mr. Nixon. No shadow
of doubt darkened the old man's face, not a
word of objection dropped from his lips. The
one emotion excited in him was simple,
unreflecting, unalloyed delight. He sprang to
his feet with all his natural activity, his eyes
sparkled again with all their natural brightness:
one moment, he clapped his hands like
a child; the next, he caught up his hat, and
entreated Rosamond to let him lead her at
once to his niece's bedside. "If you will
only tell Sarah what you have just told me,"
he cried, hurrying across the room to open
the door, "you will give her back her
courage, you will raise her up from her bed, you
will cure her before the day is out!"

A warning word from Mr. Frankland
stopped him on a sudden, and brought him
back, silent and attentive, to the chair that
he had left the moment before.

"Think a little of what the doctor told
you," said Leonard. "The sudden surprise
which has made you so happy might do fatal
mischief to your niece. Before we take the
responsibility of speaking to her on a subject
which is sure to agitate her violently,
however careful we may be in introducing it, we
ought first, I think, for safety's sake, to apply
to the doctor for advice."

Rosamond warmly seconded her husband's
suggestion, and, with her characteristic
impatience of delay, proposed that they should
find out the medical man immediately. Uncle
Joseph announced—a little unwillingly, as it
seemed—in answer to her inquiries, that he
knew the place of the doctor's residence, and
that he was generally to be found at home
before one o'clock in the afternoon. It was then
just half-past twelve; and Rosamond, with her
husband's approval, rang the bell at once to
send for a cab. She was about to leave the
room to put on her bonnet, after giving the
necessary order, when the old man stopped her
by asking, with some appearance of hesitation
and confusion, if it was considered necessary
that he should go to the doctor with
Mr. and Mrs. Frankland; adding, before the
question could be answered, that he would
greatly prefer, if there was no objection to it
on their parts, being left to wait at the hotel
to receive any instructions they might wish
to give him on their return. Leonard
immediately complied with his request, without
inquiring into his reasons for making it; but
Rosamond's curiosity was aroused, and she
asked why he preferred remaining by himself
at the hotel to going with them to the
doctor.

"I like him not," said the old man. "When
he speaks about Sarah, he looks and talks as
if he thought she would never get up from
her bed again." Answering in those brief
words, he walked away uneasily to the
window, as if he desired to say no more.

The residence of the doctor was at some
little distance, but Mr. and Mrs. Frankland
arrived there before one o'clock, and found
him at home. He was a young man, with a
mild, grave face, and a quiet subdued manner.
Daily contact with suffering and sorrow had
perhaps prematurely steadied and saddened
his character. Merely introducing her
husband and herself to him, as persons who were
deeply interested in his patient at the
lodging-house, Rosamond left it to Leonard
to ask the first questions relating to the
condition of her mother's health.

The doctor's answer was ominously
prefaced by a few polite words which were
evidently intended to prepare his hearers for
a less hopeful report than they might have
come there expecting to receive. Carefully
divesting the subject of all professional
technicalities, he told them that his patient
was undoubtedly affected with serious disease
of the heart. The exact nature of this
disease he candidly acknowledged to be a
matter of doubt, which various medical men
might decide in various ways. According to
the opinion which he had himself formed
from the symptoms, he believed that the
patient's malady was connected with the
artery which conveys blood directly from the
heart through the system. Having found
her singularly unwilling to answer questions
relating to the nature of her past life, he
could only guess that the disease was of long
standing; that it was originally produced by
some great mental shock, followed by long
wearing anxiety (of which her face showed
palpable traces); and that it had been
seriously aggravated by the fatigue of a
journey to London, which she acknowledged
she had undertaken, at a time when great
nervous exhaustion rendered her totally unfit
to travel. Speaking according to this view
of the case, it was his painful duty to tell her
friends that any violent emotion would
unquestionably put her life in danger. At the
same time, if the mental uneasiness from
which she was now suffering could be
removed, and if she could be placed in a quiet
comfortable country home, among people who
would be unremittingly careful in keeping
her composed, and in suffering her to want