“Then you think you know the secret of her illness, do you?”
“I do. I think, indeed I may say I know, it is—bereavement.”
The Doctor compressed his lips and bowed.
The stranger drooped his head somewhat, and, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, laid the tips of his thumbs and fingers softly together.
“The truth is, sir, she cannot recover from the loss of our son.”
“An infant?” asked the Doctor. His bell rang again as he put the question.
“No, sir; a young man,—one whom I had thought a person of great promise; just about to enter life.”
“When did he die?”
“He has been dead nearly a year. I”— The speaker ceased as the mulatto waiting-man appeared at the open door, with a large, simple, German face looking easily over his head from behind.
“Toctor,” said the owner of this face, lifting an immense open hand, “Toctor, uf you bleace, Toctor, you vill bleace ugscooce me.”