“It is a dreadful tale,” he said moodily, getting up and walking restlessly to and fro in the dim spruce-shadowed old kitchen where they were. “And if it is true that her mother’s willful silence caused Kilmeny’s dumbness, I fear, as you say, that we cannot help her. But you may be mistaken. It may have been nothing more than a strange coincidence. Possibly something may be done for her. At all events, we must try. I have a friend in Queenslea who is a physician. His name is David Baker, and he is a very skilful specialist in regard to the throat and voice. I shall have him come here and see Kilmeny.”
“Have your way,” assented Janet in the hopeless tone which she might have used in giving him permission to attempt any impossible thing.
“It will be necessary to tell Dr. Baker why Kilmeny cannot speak—or why you think she cannot.”
Janet’s face twitched.
“Must that be, Master? Oh, it’s a bitter tale to tell a stranger.”
“Don’t be afraid. I shall tell him nothing that is not strictly necessary to his proper understanding of the case. It will be quite enough to say that Kilmeny may be dumb because for several months before her birth her mother’s mind was in a very morbid condition, and she preserved a stubborn and unbroken silence because of a certain bitter personal resentment.”
“Well, do as you think best, Master.”
Janet plainly had no faith in the possibility of anything being done for Kilmeny. But a rosy glow of hope flashed over Kilmeny’s face when Eric told her what he meant to do.
“Oh, do you think he can make me speak?” she wrote eagerly.
“I don’t know, Kilmeny. I hope that he can, and I know he will do all that mortal skill can do. If he can remove your defect will you promise to marry me, dearest?”