“Indeed I will, dear papa.”
Mr. Ernescliffe was with her as the doctor quitted her. She held the letter to him, “But,” she said slowly, “I see that papa does not believe it.”
“You promised to abide by it!” he exclaimed, between entreaty and authority.
“I do; if you choose so to risk your hopes.”
“But,” cried he, as he glanced hastily over the letter, “there can be no doubt! These words are as certain as language can make them. Why will you not trust them?”
“I see that papa does not.”
“Despondency and self-reproach made him morbidly anxious. Believe so, my Margaret! You know he is no surgeon!”
“His education included that line,” said Margaret. “I believe he has all but the manual dexterity. However, I would fain have faith in Sir Matthew,” she added, smiling, “and perhaps I am only swayed by the habit of thinking that papa must know best.”
“He does in indifferent cases; but it is an old axiom, that a medical man should not prescribe for his own family; above all, in such a case, where it is but reasonable to believe an unprejudiced stranger, who alone is cool enough to be relied on. I absolutely depend on him!”
Margaret absolutely depended on the bright cheerful look of conviction. “Yes,” she said, “we will try to make papa take pleasure in the prospect. Perhaps I could do more if I made the attempt.”