She sighed.
"I wish I could say the same!" she said—"I really hate yachting, but father likes it, so I must sacrifice myself." Here she sighed again. I saw she was really convinced that she was immolating herself on the altar of filial obedience. "You know he is very ill,"—she went on—"and that he cannot live long?"
"He told me something about it,"—I answered—"and I said then, as I say now, that the doctors may be wrong."
"Oh no, they cannot be wrong in his case," she declared, shaking her head dismally—"They know the symptoms, and they can only avert the end for a time. I'm very thankful Dr. Brayle was able to come with us on this trip."
"I suppose he is paid a good deal for his services?" I said.
"Eight hundred guineas"—she answered—"But, you see, he has to leave his patients in London, and find another man to attend to them during his absence. He is so very clever and so much sought after—I don't know what I should do without him, I'm sure!"
"Has he any special treatment for you?" I asked.
"Oh yes,—he gives me electricity. He has a wonderful battery—he has got it fitted up here in the next cabin—and while I hold two handles he turns it on and it runs all over me. I feel always better for the moment—but the effect soon passes."
I looked at her with a smile.
"I should think so! Dear Miss Harland, do you really believe in that way of administering electricity?"