“There is no haste. I am going farther, and will call as I come back. Lie down, dear child, and rest just now.”
Graeme left the room, and as the doctor turned to go out, she beckoned him into the study.
“You don’t mean to tell me that Menie is in danger?” said she, with a gasp.
“I am by no means sure what I shall say to you. It will depend on how you are likely to listen,” said the doctor, gravely.
Graeme strove to command herself and speak calmly.
“Anything is better than suspense.” Then, laying her hand on his arm, she added, “She is not worse! Surely you would have told us!—”
“My dear young lady, calm yourself. She is not worse than she has been. The chances of recovery are altogether in her favour. The indications of disease are comparatively slight—that is, she has youth on her side, and a good constitution. If the month of March were over, we would have little to fear with another summer before us. Your mother did not die of consumption?”
“No, but—” The remembrance of what Janet had told her about their “bonny Aunt Marian” took away Graeme’s power to speak.
“Well, we have everything to hope if we can see her safely through the spring without taking cold, and you must keep her cheerful.”
“She is always cheerful.”