She shook her head sadly.
'Tell me what to do?' he cried out passionately. 'I love her. You know this already. I would give my life—my blood drawn from me painfully drop by drop—to save her a single pang. The thought of her trouble is agony to me—torture. What are we to do? Shall I send to Agra for an English doctor? I might.'
'I am afraid, my poor friend, that no doctor would do her any good. The disease lies deeper than medicine can cure.'
'What would, then? Tell me, for heaven's sake!'
'She has something on her mind,' said Mrs. Lyster doubtfully.
'I know it—I know it. A fancied trouble. If some one reasonable and wise, like you, were to talk it over with her, she might be persuaded to put it from her. Won't you try?'
'I dare not,' said Mrs. Lyster, in a broken voice.
Tom started. 'I don't understand,' he said confusedly.
'And I am afraid I can't explain,' she said. 'There is something about her—a whiteness of soul, a majesty. There, I am stumbling about as usual. In plain English, I can't get near her, and I am afraid to attempt it.'
'And yet——' began Tom.