"You did at breakfast, but you have not seen her since. I wish you had. I am sick at heart."
"Is she unwell, sir?"
"Do you know what consumption is? Have you ever watched its fearful progress?"
"Never."
"I thought you might have done so. It is a fearful disease, and leaves hardly a family untouched. Did she not look ill?—you can tell me that, at least."
"Not quite so well, perhaps, as I have seen her, sir; but I should hope"—
"Eh—what, not very ill, then? Well, that is strange, for I was frightened by her. What can it be? I wish that Mayhew had called in. Every ailment fills me with terror. I always think of her dear mother. Three months before her death, she sat with me, as we do here together, well and strong, and thanking Providence for health and strength. She withered, as it might be from that hour, and, as I tell you, three short months of havoc brought her to the grave."
"Was she young, sir?"
"A few years older than my child—but that is nothing. Did you say you did not think her looks this morning indicated any symptoms? Oh—no! I recollect. You never saw the malady at work. Well, certainly she does not cough as her poor mother did. Did it look like languor, think you?"
"The loss of rest might"—