As the fall advanced, a slight cough alarmed her mother, and again the physician was summoned. Julia earnestly desired to see him alone. He found her in her room with a small parcel on the table before her.
“Doctor,” she said, with a faint smile, “you are called on to restore health to the hopeless. You know that to be an impossible task. I wish you to tell me honestly and truly, how long you think I can live.”
“Pooh! Miss Julia! you are too young to talk of dying. Many long and happy years are, I trust, before you.”
“You would flatter me with a hope that is not dear to me. Long life I now ask not—desire not. I ask you as a man of honor—as a Christian—if you think it possible for me to recover? To die is now my only wish.”
“So the young always say when disappointment meets them. Your pulse is quick—you are feverish; but I think these symptoms will pass away. A winter in a warm climate I shall recommend to Mr. Herbert as the best thing for you; and I hope to see you again quite restored.”
“In a warm climate? What country will you recommend?” she asked abruptly.
“The South of France—or Italy.”
“Italy! Oh, let it be Italy! I could die contented there; but I will not consent to go. I dare not consent to be united to Mr. Herbert unless you will assure me that the last hope of life is past.”
The doctor looked at her as if doubting her sanity.
“You are young to lie down in the grave with resignation. There is some mystery here, my young friend, which is wearing your life gradually away. Can you not confide in me? I may be able to serve you.”