"Oh, doctor!" said Zillah, imploringly, "I did not mean to--I could not help it--but tell me--it is not true, is it? Tell me that my father is not going to leave me!"
"I will tell you this," said he, gravely. "You are destroying every chance of his recovery by your vehemence."
Zillah looked up at him with an expression of agony on her face such as, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, he had but seldom encountered.
"I've killed him, then!" she faltered.
The doctor put his hand kindly on her shoulder. "I trust not, my poor child," said he; "but it is my duty to warn you of the consequences of giving way to excessive grief."
"Oh, doctor! you are quite right, and I will try very hard not to give way again."
During this conversation, which was low and hurried, General Pomeroy lay without hearing any thing of what they were saying. His lips moved, and his hands picked at the bed-clothes convulsively. Only one idea was in his mind--the accomplishment of his wishes. His daughter's grief seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Indeed, he did not appear to notice it.
"Speak to her, doctor," said he, feebly, as he heard their voices. "Tell her I can not die happy unless she is married--I can not leave her alone in the world."
The doctor looked surprised. "What does he mean?" he said, taking Zillah aside. "What is this fancy? Is there any thing in it?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Zillah. "It is certainly on his mind, and he can't be argued or humored out of it. It is an arrangement made some years ago between him and Lord Chetwynde that when I grew up I should marry his son, and he has just been telling me that he wishes it carried out now. Oh! what--what _shall_ I do?" she added, despairingly. "Can't you do something, doctor?"