The doctor tried to rouse her.
"You must not think too seriously of this," he said, following her to the
window at which she stood, and dropping his voice so that Oscar could not
hear him. "He has himself told you that he feels lighter and better than
he felt before the fit. It has relieved instead of injuring him. There is
no danger. I assure you, on my honor, there is nothing to fear."
"Can you assure me, on your honor, of one other thing," she asked,
lowering her voice on her side. "Can you honestly tell me that this is
not the first of other fits that are to come?"
The doctor parried the question.
"We will have another medical opinion," he answered, "before we decide.
The next time I go to see him, a physician from Brighton shall go with
me."
Oscar, who had thus far waited, wondering at the change in her, now
opened the door. The doctor returned to him. They left us.
She sat down on the window-seat, with her elbows on her knees and her
hands grasping her forehead. A long moaning cry burst from her. She said
to herself bitterly the one word--"Farewell!"
I approached her; feeling the necessity of reminding her that I was in
the room.
"Farewell to what?" I asked, taking my place by her side.
"To his happiness and to mine," she answered, without lifting her head
from her hands. "The dark days are coming for Oscar and for me."
"Why should you think that? You heard what the doctor said.
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