assion, she seated herself at her writing-table.

"Take care what you do, madam," said Grounsell, approaching where she
sat, and speaking in a low and solemn voice. "Let not any feeling of
displeasure with me induce you to an act of rashness or imprudence. My
old friend's state is critical; it may at any moment become dangerous.
I am convinced that what I am doing offers the most reasonable hope of
serving him. Take care lest you weaken his confidence in me, when he may
not be prepared to repose it in another."

"Here, Sydney, you write German; and it is possible he may not read
French. This is his name, I got it in Paris Graeffnell. Tell him to come
at once in fact, let Francois take a carriage for him."

Sydney Onslow looked at her mother and then at the doctor. At the
latter her glance was almost imploring, but he never noticed it, turning
abruptly toward the window without uttering a word.

"Can you consult with him, doctor?" asked Sydney, timidly.

"Of course not; he 's a mountebank."

"Write, as I bade you, Miss Onslow," said Lady Hester. "Dr. Graeffnell
is one of the first men in Germany. Lady Heskisson sent for him when the
Earl fell ill at Wiesbaden."

"And the Countess was a widow in four days after. Don't forget the
denouement of the story, madam."

Sydney dropped the pen, and her hands fell powerless to her side. There
was something in the sternness of the doctor that seemed to awe
even Lady Onslow, for she made no reply; while Grounsell, seeing his
advantage, left the room at once, without further parley.

Our readers will probably forgive us if we follow his example, and not
remain to listen to the eloquent monologue in which Lady Onslow lamented
her sad condition in life. Not only did she bewail her destiny, but,
like one of those classic personages the Greek Chorus presents us to,
she proceeded to speculate upon every possible mischance futurity might
have in store for her, ingeniously inventing "situations," and
devising "predicaments" that nothing less gifted than a self-tormenting
imagination can conceive. Leaving her to all the pleasure such a pastime
can give, we shall quit the house, and, although a cold, raw evening is
closing in, wander out into the street.

CHAPTER V. THE PATIENT

ALONG the dark and narrow street, over which the coming night cast a
dreary shadow, a single lamp was seen to shine at the door of Ludwig
Kraus, the apothecary; a beacon, it is but fair to add, lighte