"Presently, dear daughter—presently," said the doctor, who then, beckoning Traverse to stoop low, said:
"Do not let Clara sit up with me to-night. I foresee a night of great anguish which I may not be able to repress, and which I would not have her witness! Promise you will keep her away."
"I promise," faltered the almost broken-hearted youth. "You may admit her now," said the doctor, composing his convulsed countenance as best he could, lest the sight of his sufferings should distress his daughter.
Clara entered, and resumed her post at the side of the bed.
Traverse left the room to prepare the palliatives for his patient.
The afternoon waned. As evening approached the fever, inflammation and pain arose to such a degree that the doctor could no longer forbear betraying his excessive suffering, which was, besides, momentarily increasing, so he said to Clara:
"My child, you must now leave me and retire to bed. I must be watched by Traverse alone to-night."
And Traverse, seeing her painful hesitation, between her extreme reluctance to leave him and her wish to obey him, approached and murmured:
"Dear Clara, it would distress him to have you stay; he will be much better attended by me alone."
Clara still hesitated; and Traverse, beckoning his mother to come and speak to her, left her side.