Mr. Dinsmore groaned aloud, and no longer resisted the physician's efforts to lead him from the room. "It is the delirium of fever," Dr. Barton said, in answer to the father's agonized look of inquiry; "she will recover her reason—if she lives."
The last words were added in a lower, quicker tone.
Mr. Dinsmore covered his face, and uttered a groan of agony.
"Doctor, is there no hope?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Do you wish me to tell you precisely what I think?" asked the physician.
"I do! I do! let me know the worst!" was the quick, passionate rejoinder.
"Then, Mr. Dinsmore, I will be frank with you. Had you returned one week ago, I think she might have been saved; possibly, even had you been here yesterday morning, while she was still in possession of her reason; but now, I see not one ray of hope. I never knew one so low to recover."
He started, as Mr. Dinsmore raised his face again, so pale, so haggard, so grief-stricken had it become in that one moment.
"Doctor," he said in a hollow, broken voice, "save my child, and you may take all I am worth. I cannot live without her."
"I will do all I can," replied the physician in a tone of deep compassion, "but the Great Physician alone can save her. We must look to him."