It seemed very long before Mr. Gibson came down. He went and stood with his back to the empty fireplace, and did not speak for a minute or two.
"He's gone to bed," said he at length. "Robinson and I have got him there. But just as I was leaving him he called me back and asked me to let you stop. I'm sure I don't know—but one doesn't like to refuse at such a time."
"I wish to stay," said Molly.
"Do you? There's a good girl. But how will you manage?"
"Oh, never mind that. I can manage. Papa,"—she paused—"what did Osborne die of?" She asked the question in a low, awe-stricken voice.
"Something wrong about the heart. You wouldn't understand if I told you. I apprehended it for some time; but it's better not to talk of such things at home. When I saw him on Thursday week, he seemed better than I've seen him for a long time. I told Dr. Nicholls so. But one never can calculate in these complaints."
"You saw him on Thursday week? Why, you never mentioned it!" said Molly.
"No. I don't talk of my patients at home. Besides, I didn't want him to consider me as his doctor, but as a friend. Any alarm about his own health would only have hastened the catastrophe."
"Then didn't he know that he was ill—ill of a dangerous complaint, I mean: one that might end as it has done?"
"No; certainly not. He would only have been watching his symptoms—accelerating matters, in fact."