The whole drooping attitude was so lovely, so feminine, yet so sad, that Hazel stood irresolute, looking wistfully at her.
She caught sight of him, and, by a natural impulse, turned gently away, as if to hide her tears. But the next moment she altered her mind, and said, with a quiet dignity that came naturally to her at times, "Why should I hide my care from you, sir? Mr. Hazel, may I speak to you as a clergyman?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Hazel, in a somewhat faint voice.
She pointed to a seat, and he sat down near her.
She was silent for some time; her lip quivered a little; she was struggling inwardly for that decent composure which on certain occasions distinguishes the lady from the mere woman; and it was with a pretty firm voice she said what follows:
"I am going to tell you a little secret; one I have kept from my own father. It is—that I have not very long to live."
Her hazel eye rested calmly on his face while she said these words quietly.
He received them with amazement at first; amazement that soon deepened into horror. "What do you mean?" he gasped. "What words are these?"
"Thank you for minding so much," said she sweetly. "I will tell you. I have fits of coughing, not frequent, but violent; and then blood very often comes from my lungs. That is a bad sign, you know. I have been so for four months now, and I am a good deal wasted; my hand used to be very plump; look at it now. Poor Arthur!"
She turned away her head to drop a gentle, unselfish tear or two; and Hazel stared with increasing alarm at the lovely but wasted hand she still held out to him, and glanced, too, at Arthur Wardlaw's letter, held slightly by the beloved fingers.