life.

He loved Nan, and Nan did not love him. Well, there was an end of his
domestic happiness. Fortunately, there was work to be done still,
success to be achieved, prizes to win in the world of men. He was not
going to sit down and despair because he had lost a woman's love. And
so, with set lips and frowning brow he once more set to work, and this
time with redoubled vigor; but he knew all the while that he was a very
miserable man.

Perhaps if he had seen Nan crying over the flowers that she had just
rejected, he might have hoped that there was still a chance of
recovering the place in her heart which he had lost.

But after this short conversation life went on in the old ways. Sydney
appeared to be more than ever engrossed in his work. Nan grew paler and
stiller every day. Lady Pynsent became anxious and distressed.

"Sydney, what are you doing? what are you thinking about?" she said to
him one day, when she managed to catch him for five minutes alone.
"Don't you see how ill Nan is?"

"She looks ill; but she always says there is nothing the matter with
her."

"That is a very bad sign. I hope you have made her consult a good
doctor? There is Burrows--I should take her to him."

"Burrows! Why, he is a specialist!"

"Nan's mother died of decline. Burrows attended her."

Sydney went away with a new fear implanted in his heart.

Dr. Burrows was sent for, and saw his patient; but he did not seem able
to form any definite opinion concerning her. He said a few words to
Sydney, however, which gave him food for a good deal of reflection
during the next day or two.

At the end of that time, he came to Nan's sitting-room with a look of
quiet purpose on his face. "May I speak to you for a minute?" he began
formally--he had got into the way of speaking very formally and
ceremoniously to her now. "Can you listen to me?"

"Certainly. Won't you sit down?"

But he preferred to remain standing at an angle where she could not see
his face without turning her head. "I have been talking to Dr. Burrows
about you. He tells me, I am sorry to say, that you are still very weak;
but he thinks that there is nothing wrong but weakness, though that is
bad enough in itself. But he wishes me also to say--you will remember
that it is he who speaks, not I--that if you could manage to rouse
yourself, Nan, if _you_ would made an effort to get stronger, he thinks
you might do it, if you chose."

"Like Mrs. Dombey," said Nan, with a