“Most certainly; the exact truth, as far as you know it.”
“I am afraid it will not even be months.”
The doctor considerately left his patient for a few minutes after he had thus pronounced sentence upon him. Stapleton was waiting anxiously. He was almost certain there was no hope, and yet it was a keen disappointment to him when he found his worst fears confirmed.
“He will bear it like a man,” he said, “for there are few better and braver men in the world than Harris. I am truly sorry. I shall lose a friend whom I greatly respect. You can have no idea what a fine fellow he is!”
“Has he a wife and children?”
“No; he has a granddaughter, or a ward, I do not know which—a young lady who loves and honours him; but all the village in which he lives will mourn him.”
“The worst of it is the horrible suffering he must bear.”
“Ah, yes! It is terrible to think of what it must be before release comes. How long will it be?”
“Three or four weeks probably, not more, though he is a strong man, and I should judge that he has not played fast and loose with his constitution.”
When Stapleton joined his friend he was met with the kind smile which always had a wonderful tenderness and sweetness in it, quite characteristic of the man. It almost brought tears to Stapleton’s eyes now, and he silently grasped the hand that was quite firm, and whose clasp was as true as friendship itself. “It is all right, Stapleton,” he said. “Do not grieve for me; and let us get home as soon as we can.”