“What do you mean, Thomas? What do you fear may be the matter with you?”
“Do you remember what killed our mother?”
There was a painful pause. “Oh, Thomas!”
“It is so,” said Thomas, quietly.
“I hope you are mistaken! I hope you are mistaken!” reiterated George. “Have you had advice? You must have advice.”
“I have had it. Snow confirms my own suspicions. I desired the truth.”
“Who’s Snow?” returned George, disparagingly. “Go up to London, Thomas; consult the best man there. Or telegraph for one of them to come down to you.”
“For the satisfaction of you all, I may do so,” he replied. “But it cannot benefit me, George.”
“Good Heavens, what a dreadful thing!” returned George, with feeling. “What a blow to fall upon you!”
“You would regard it so, were it to fall upon you; and naturally. You are young, joyous; you have your wife and child. I have none of these attributes: and—if I had them all, we are in the hands of One who knows what is best for us.”