at's well. You must not let her do anything to weary herself.
I don't like the stove-heat for her. You should let her sleep in the
other room where the fireplace is. When the days are fine, she must be
well wrapped up and go out, and I will send her something. My dear, you
have no occasion for despondency. The chances are all in her favour."

He went toward the door, but came back again, and after walking up and
down the room for a little, he came close to Graeme.

"And if it were not so, my child, you are a Christian. If the
possibility you have been contemplating should become a reality, ought
it to be deplored?"

A strong shudder passed over Graeme. The doctor paused, not able to
withstand the pain in her face.

"Nay, my child--if you could keep her here and assure to her all that
the world can give, what would that be in comparison with the `rest that
remaineth?' For her it would be far better to go, and for you--when
your time comes to lie down and die--would it sooth you then to know
that she must be left behind, to travel, perhaps, with garments not
unspotted, all the toilsome way alone?"

Graeme's face drooped till it was quite hidden, and her tears fell fast.
Her friend did not seek to check them.

"I know the first thought is terrible. But, child! the grave is a safe
place in which to keep our treasures. Mine are nearly all there. I
would not have it otherwise--and they are safe from the chances of a
changeful world. You will be glad for yourself by and by. You should
be glad for your sister now."

"If I were sure--if I were quite sure," murmured Graeme through her
weeping.

"Sure that she is going home?" said the doctor, stooping low to whisper
the words. "I think you may be sure--as sure as one can be in such a
case! It is a great mystery. Your father will know best. God is good.
Pray for her."

"My father! He does not even think of danger." Graeme clasped her
hands with a quick despairing motion.

"Miss Graeme," said the doctor, hastily, "you must not speak to your
father yet. Marian's case is by no means hopeless, and your father must
be spared all anxiety at present. A sudden shock might--" He paused.

"Is not my father well? Has he not quite recovered?" asked Graeme.

"Quite well, my dear, don't be fanciful. But it will do no good to
disturb him now. I will speak to him, or give you leave to speak to
him, if it should become necessary. In the meantime you must be
c