her? Why should she thus weep for
him in paroxysms of truest grief?

We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery of
the world tells much of conjugal disturbances as a cure for which
women will look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwilling
eyes. The raillery of the world is very slanderous. In our daily
jests we attribute to each other vices of which neither we, nor our
neighbours, nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty.
It is our favourite parlance to talk of the family troubles of Mrs
Green on our right, and to tell how Mrs Young on our left is strongly
suspected of having raised her hand to her lord and master. What
right have we to make these charges? What have we seen in our own
personal walks through life to make us believe that women are devils?
There may possibly have been a Xantippe here and there, but Imogenes
are to be found under every bush. Lady Scatcherd, in spite of the
life she had led, was one of them.

"You should send a message up to London for Louis," said the doctor.

"We did that, doctor; we did that to-day--we sent up a telegraph. Oh
me! oh me! poor boy, what will he do? I shall never know what to do
with him, never! never!" And with such sorrowful wailings she sat
rocking herself through the long night, every now and then comforting
herself by the performance of some menial service in the sick man's
room.

Sir Roger passed the night much as he had passed the day, except
that he appeared gradually to be growing nearer to a state of
consciousness. On the following morning they succeeded at last in
making Mr Rerechild understand that they were not desirous of keeping
him longer from his Barchester practice; and at about twelve o'clock
Dr Thorne also went, promising that he would return in the evening,
and again pass the night at Boxall Hill.

In the course of the afternoon Sir Roger once more awoke to his
senses, and when he did so his son was standing at his bedside. Louis
Philippe Scatcherd--or as it may be more convenient to call him,
Louis--was a young man just of the age of Frank Gresham. But there
could hardly be two youths more different in their appearance. Louis,
though his father and mother were both robust persons, was short and
slight, and now of a sickly frame. Frank was a picture of health
and strength; but, though manly in disposition, was by no means
precocious either in appearance or manners. Louis Scatcherd looked
as though he wa