"Ah! Ellen," cried Markham, "I can read your heart!"
"You, Richard!" exclaimed the young lady, with a cold shudder that seemed to terminate in a death-chill at the heart.
"Yes," continued Markham, his voice assuming a tone of melancholy interest; "I can well appreciate your motives in combating the desire of your father to procure medical aid. You were afraid of burdening me with an expense which you feared my restricted means would not permit me to afford;—Oh! I understand your good feeling! But this was wrong, Ellen; for I did not invite you to my house to deny to either yourself or father the common attentions which I would bestow upon a stranger who fell sick under my roof. No—thank God! I have yet enough left to meet casualties like these."
"Ah! Richard, how kind—how generous you are," said Ellen; "but I am now really much better;—and to-morrow—to-morrow I shall be quite well."
"No—Ellen, you are very far from well," returned Markham; "but you shall be well soon. I have been myself this morning to procure you proper advice."
"Advice?" repeated Ellen, mechanically.
"Yes: there is a medical gentleman now waiting to see you."
With these words Richard hastened to the door, and said, "Miss Monroe, sir, is now ready to receive you. I will leave you with her."
The medical man then entered the chamber; and Markham immediately retired.
The votary of Æsculapius was a man of apparently five-and-twenty years of age—pale, but good-looking, with light hair, and a somewhat melancholy expression of countenance. He was attired in deep black. His manners were soft and pleasing; but his voice was mournful; and his utterance slow, precise, and solemn.