"Perhaps we could."
There was a long pause and then Hilda asked: "Annie, do you suppose that papa—do you think he will be able—it would be silly to——"
Anne looked quickly away. "I don't know, mamma, let's ask the doctor."
"I don't know just how to do it," Hilda whispered. "But really, Annie, if he couldn't use it, it would be——"
"A waste," Anne finished.
But it was another week before the doctor found time to include this useless visit in his busy round. He came in mid-afternoon, as James Mitchell waked from his after-luncheon nap. He stayed chatting for a quarter of an hour and wrote a new prescription to make the sick man feel that everything possible was being done. As he left, Hilda drew him into the kitchen.
"He seems brighter, doctor, don't you think so?"
"Yes. You're good nurses. His general health is wonderfully good."
Hilda looked at Anne, the unasked question in her eyes, but Anne refused to put it. Not until the doctor was drawing on his gloves, did Hilda face it.
"How long, doctor—is there—always a second stroke—how——?"