"Or a funeral, doctor," quietly answered Adeline.
"I speak as I think," he seriously said. "I do believe that now there is great hope of your recovery. If we could but get you to the South!"
"Adeline," I exclaimed, as the physician went out, and she and I were alone, "you heard what he said. Those words were worth a king's ransom."
"They were not worth a serfs," was her reply. "I appreciate his motives. He imagines that the grave must of necessity be a bitter and terrible prospect, and is willing to cheer me with hopes, whether they prove true or false: as all doctors do; it is in their trade. But he knows perfectly well that I must die."
"How calmly you speak! One would think you coveted the approach of death!"
"Well--I don't know that I regret it."
"Has life no longer a charm for you? Oh, that you had never met Frederick St. John!"
"Don't say so! He came to me in mercy."
A burst of tears succeeded to the words, startling me nearly out of my senses.
"There! that's your fault," she cried, with a wretched attempt at gaiety. "In talking of regret, you made me think of my dear papa and mamma. Their grief will be dreadful."