down the passage, then, casting a hasty glance behind her,
for fear Mrs. Staines should be watching her, hurried into the doctor's
room. They met at once in the middle of the room, and Mrs. Briscoe burst
out, "Sir, it is known all over the house!"

"Heaven forbid! What is known?"

"What you would give the world to keep from her. Why, sir, the moment
you cautioned me, of course I saw there was trouble. But little I
thought--sir, not a servant in the kitchen or the stable but knows that
her husband--poor thing! poor thing!--Ah! there goes the housemaid--to
have a look at her."

"Stop her!"

Mrs. Briscoe had not waited for this; she rushed after the woman, and
told her Mrs. Staines was sleeping, and the room must not be entered on
any account.

"Oh, very well," said the maid, rather sullenly.

Mrs. Briscoe saw her return to the kitchen, and came back to Dr.
Staines; he was pacing the room in torments of anxiety.

"Doctor," said she, "it is the old story: 'Servants' friends, the
master's enemies.' An old servant came here to gossip with her friend
the cook (she never could abide her while they were together, by all
accounts), and told her the whole story of his being drowned at sea."

Dr. Philip groaned, "Cursed chatterbox!" said he. "What is to be done?
Must we break it to her now? Oh, if I could only buy a few days more!
The heart to be crushed while the body is weak! It is too cruel. Advise
me, Mrs. Briscoe. You are an experienced woman, and I think you are a
kind-hearted woman."

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Briscoe, "I had the name of it, when I was
younger--before Briscoe failed, and I took to nursing; which it hardens,
sir, by use, and along of the patients themselves; for sick folk are
lumps of selfishness; we see more of them than you do, sir. But this I
WILL say, 'tisn't selfishness that lies now in that room, waiting for
the blow that will bring her to death's door, I'm sore afraid; but a
sweet, gentle, thoughtful creature, as ever supped sorrow; for I don't
know how 'tis, doctor, nor why 'tis, but an angel like that has always
to sup sorrow."

"But you do not advise me," said the doctor, in agitation, "and
something must be done."

"Advise you, sir; it is not for me to do that. I am sure I'm at my wits'
ends, poor thing! Well, sir, I don't see what you can do, but try and
break it to her. Better so, than let it come to her like a clap of
thunder. But I think, sir, I'd have a wet-nurse ready, before I sa