bad sort;" and when
Elizabeth pressed him more closely he had seemed quite worried.

"Do give me my way in this," he said to her coaxingly. "If you knew how
I love this dear old cottage! It was in this room I first saw you,
dearest. You were standing by that window, in the sunshine, when the
vicar brought me to see the place, and you turned round with such a
beaming smile on your face. I think I loved you then. I could not be so
happy anywhere else." And Elizabeth had reluctantly yielded her opinion.

But the humble cottage rooms had been beautified and transformed by
hers and Dinah's thoughtful care for the invalid, and one comfort after
another had found their way from the Wood House. The very couch that
Dinah had used in her illness, with its soft silk cushions and
eider-down foot-quilt, the gold and black screen from the inner
drawing-room, and a favourite easy-chair that David had often praised,
were all at the White Cottage, Nor was Mr. Charrington behindhand in
his attentions. His housekeeper, Mrs. Finch, always prepared the
invalid's dainty little dinners: the excellent beef-tea and soups, the
jellies, rusks, and delicate puddings, were all Mrs. Finch's handiwork.
Mrs. Pratt's cookery was not to be depended on, and though she
pretended to grumble at other folks' interference, she was only too
glad to be saved trouble.

It may be doubted whether David Carlyon really realized his own serious
condition until the physician's opinion had been made known to him.
"Advanced phthisis," he muttered thoughtfully. But when Dr. Broderick
proceeded to recommend Mentone or some southern health resort for the
winter, he had turned upon him almost abruptly.

"I suppose Davos Platz would not cure me?" he asked. Then, as the
doctor hesitated with the natural dislike to give pain, David continued
bluntly--

"It would be the truest kindness on your part, Dr. Broderick, to tell
me the truth. If I take your advice and go to one of these places, may
I expect to get well in time?"

"I am afraid not, Mr. Carlyon," returned the physician reluctantly. "It
would be wrong of me to let you go away with this idea. You have
consulted me too late--the disease is too far advanced. But it is my
duty to tell you that life would certainly be prolonged in a warmer
climate."

"There, David," and the Rev Rupert Carlyon looked pleadingly at his son.

"Wait a moment, father," returned David firmly; "I have not quite
finished my questions. Let