“Carl is very well off where he is,” resumed Mrs. Crawford. “He is filling a business position, humble, perhaps, but still one that gives him his living and keeps him out of mischief. Let well enough alone, doctor, and don’t interrupt his plans.”
“I—I may be foolish,” said the doctor, hesitating, “but I have not been feeling as well as usual lately, and if anything should happen to me while Carl was absent I should die very unhappy.”
Mrs. Crawford regarded her husband with uneasiness.
“Do you mean that you think you are in any danger?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I am not an old man, but, on the other hand, I am an invalid. My father died when he was only a year older than I am at present.”
Mrs. Crawford drew out her handkerchief, and proceeded to wipe her tearless eyes.
“You distress me beyond measure by your words, my dear husband. How can I think of your death without emotion? What should I do without you?”
“My dear, you must expect to survive me. You are younger than I, and much stronger.”
“Besides,” and Mrs. Crawford made an artful pause, “I hardly like to mention it, but Peter and I are poor, and by your death might be left to the cold mercies of the world.”
“Surely I would not fail to provide for you.”