"Almost, nineteen!" cries he, with an unmirthful laugh, "and you may live for fifty years! Are you going to immure yourself within these same four walls for fifty years."
"I shall not live for fifty years."
"But you may; without excitement of any description I see no reason why you should not live for a century."
"I shall not live for two years," returned I, impressively.
"Phyllis what are you saying?" cries he, with a shudder.
"The truth. I am dying slowly, and I know it. I am glad of it. I have no energy, no hope, no wish for life. Do you wonder much? At times I have a strange fancy that I am already dead; and then—-" I break off dreamily.
"What abominable morbid fancy! It is horrible!" exclaims Sir Mark, excitedly. "You must see a doctor without delay; if you were well no such mournful ideas would occur to you."
"Mournful!" I smile a little. "Yes, perhaps so—when I wake again to—find I am alive."
"Nonsense," impatiently. "Why have your people left you so much alone? It is shameful, unheard of! Phyllis, promise me you will see a doctor if I send one."
"Who shall minister to a mind diseased?" say I, still smiling. "No, I will not see your doctor. My ailment has no name; I do not suffer; quiet is my best medicine."