“Hark!” exclaimed William. “What’s that?”
A sound of talking and laughter in the hall. Mr. Carlyle, Lord Mount Severn, and his son were leaving the dining-room. They had some committee appointed that evening at West Lynne and were departing to keep it. As the hall-door closed upon them, Barbara came into the gray parlor. Up rose Madame Vine, scuffled on her spectacles, and took her seat soberly upon a chair.
“All in the dark, and your fire going out!” exclaimed Barbara, as she hastened to stir the latter and send it into a blaze. “Who’s on the sofa? William, you ought to be to bed!”
“Not yet, mamma. I don’t want to go yet.”
“But it is quite time that you should,” she returned, ringing the bell. “To sit up at night is not the way to make you strong.”
William was dismissed. And then she returned to Madame Vine, and inquired what Dr. Martin had said.
“He said the lungs were undoubtedly affected; but, like all doctors, he would give no decisive opinion. I could see that he had formed one.”
Mrs. Carlyle looked at her. The firelight played especially upon the spectacles, and she moved her chair into the shade.
“Dr. Martin will see him again next week; he is coming to West Lynne. I am sure, by the tone of his voice, by his evasive manner, that he anticipates the worst, although he would not say so in words.”
“I will take William into West Lynne myself,” observed Barbara. “The doctor will, of course, tell me. I came in to pay my debts,” she added, dismissing the subject of the child, and holding out a five-pound note.