The doctor looked at the young man, then knitted his fingers.

"It may be a large tumour which has formed in the membrane," he said
slowly, "and which we MAY be able to make go away."

"Can't you operate?" asked Paul.

"Not there," replied the doctor.

"Are you sure?"

"QUITE!"

Paul meditated a while.

"Are you sure it's a tumour?" he asked. "Why did Dr. Jameson in
Nottingham never find out anything about it? She's been going to him for
weeks, and he's treated her for heart and indigestion."

"Mrs. Morel never told Dr. Jameson about the lump," said the doctor.

"And do you KNOW it's a tumour?"

"No, I am not sure."

"What else MIGHT it be? You asked my sister if there was cancer in the
family. Might it be cancer?"

"I don't know."

"And what shall you do?"

"I should like an examination, with Dr. Jameson."

"Then have one."

"You must arrange about that. His fee wouldn't be less than ten guineas
to come here from Nottingham."

"When would you like him to come?"

"I will call in this evening, and we will talk it over."

Paul went away, biting his lip.

His mother could come downstairs for tea, the doctor said. Her son went
upstairs to help her. She wore the old-rose dressing-gown that Leonard
had given Annie, and, with a little colour in her face, was quite young
again.

"But you look quite pretty in that," he said.

"Yes; they make me so fine, I hardly know myself," she answered.

But when she stood up to walk, the colour went. Paul helped her,
half-carrying her. At the top of the stairs she was gone. He lifted her
up and carried her quickly downstairs; laid her on the couch. She was
light and frail. Her face looked as if she were dead, with blue lips
shut tight. Her eyes opened--her blue, unfailing eyes--and she looked at
him pleadingly, almost wanting him to forgive her. He held brandy to
her lips, but her mouth would not open. All the time she watched him
lovingly. She was only sorry for him. The tears ran down his face
without ceasing, but not a muscle moved. He was intent on getting
a little brandy between her lips. Soon she was able to swallow a
teaspoonful. She lay back, so tired. The tears continued to run down his
face.

"But," she panted, "it'll go off. Don't cry!"

"I'm not doing," he said.

After a while she was better again. He was kneeling beside the couch.
They looked into each other's eyes.

"I don't want you to make a trouble of it," she said.

"No, mother. You'l