“Very. I do not think she will materially rally. Her chest and lungs are both weak.”
“Her mother’s were before her. As I told you, Jessy looks to me just as my mother used to look in her last illness.”
Mr. Duffham went through the gate without saying more. The snow was sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight.
“I think I gather what you mean,” resumed Abigail. “That she is, in point of fact, dying.”
“That’s it. As I truly believe.”
They looked at each other in the clear light air. “But not—surely, Mr. Duffham, not immediately?”
“Not immediately. It may be weeks off yet. Mind—I don’t assert that she is absolutely past hope; I only think it. It is possible that she may rally, and recover.”
“It might not be the happier for her,” said Abigail, under her breath. “She is in a curiously miserable state of mind—as you no doubt saw. Mr. Duffham, did she tell you anything?”
“She says she took a place as lady’s-maid; that the work proved too hard for her; and that, with the remorse for her ingratitude towards her home, made her ill.”
“She said the same to Susan this afternoon. Well, we must wait for more. Good-night, Mr. Duffham: I am sure you will do all you can.”