ee days after the arrival of
Martin's letter I seemed to be really ill.

I am ashamed to dwell on my symptoms, but for a moment I am forced to do
so. My eyes were bright, my cheeks were coloured, and there was no
outward indication of any serious malady. But towards evening I always
had a temperature, and in the middle of the night (I was sleeping badly)
it rose very high, with a rapid pulse and anxious breathing, and in the
morning there was great exhaustion.

Old Doctor Conrad, who had been coming to me twice a day, began to look
very grave. At last, after a short examination, he said, rather
nervously:

"I should like a colleague from Blackwater to consult with me. Will you
receive him?"

I said "Yes" on one condition--that if the new doctor had anything
serious to say he should report it first to me.

A little reluctantly Martin's father agreed to my terms and the
consulting physician was sent for. He came early the next day--a
beautiful Ellan morning with a light breeze from the sea bringing the
smell of new-mown hay from the meadows lying between.

He was an elderly man, and I could not help seeing a shadow cross his
clean-shaven face the moment his eyes first fell on me. They were those
tender but searching eyes which are so often seen in doctors, who are
always walking through the Valley of the Shadow and seem to focus their
gaze accordingly.

Controlling his expression, he came up to my bed and, taking the hand I
held out to him, he said:

"I trust we'll not frighten you, my lady."

I liked that (though I cared nothing about my lost title, I thought it
was nice of him to remember it), and said I hoped I should not be too
restless.

While he took out and fixed his stethoscope (he had such beautiful soft
hands) he told me that he had had a daughter of my own age once.

"Once? Where is she now?" I asked him.

"In the Kingdom. She died like a Saint," he answered.

Then he made a long examination (returning repeatedly to the same
place), and when it was over and he raised his face I thought it looked
still more serious.

"My child," he said (I liked that too), "you've never spared yourself,
have you?"

I admitted that I had not.

"When you've had anything to do you've done it, whatever it might cost
you."

I admitted that also. He looked round to see if there was anybody else
in the room (there was only the old doctor, who was leaning over the end
of the bed, watching the face of his colleagu