She spent the afternoon in overseeing the packing of trunks, that she might be prepared for any emergency; then anxiously awaited the doctor's report.
It was her husband who brought it to her at last, late in the evening. He had been closeted for a quarter of an hour with the physician, and now came into his wife's boudoir with a countenance full of grave concern.
"Well, what is it? what does Dr. Barton say?" she queried fretfully, "I thought you would never come back to tell me."
"He fears there is little hope of recovery," her husband answered gravely, pacing slowly to and fro with the air of one who is seriously disturbed.
"And is she going to be sick long?"
"It may be for some weeks, he cannot tell certainly."
"Can she be moved?"
"Moved? What occasion for that? The room she occupies now is comfortable; is it not?"
"Dear me, Mr. Dinsmore, you can be very stupid! I want to know if she can't be sent to the village to a hotel or boarding house. It isn't at all pleasant to think of her dying here. I don't want any haunted rooms in my house."