when you came to my office this morning I told
you my conjectures and my fear. I need not, therefore, go into details
again. I am very sorry to have to say to you--" he stopped, and looked
at the younger man kindly. "I wish I might make it easier, but it is
better that I should tell you that your mother's condition is as I
expected."

Newbold gave way a step as if under a blow, and his color went gray. The
doctor had seen souls laid bare before, yet he turned his eyes to the
floor as the muscles pulled and strained in this young face. It seemed
minutes that the two faced each other in the loaded silence, the doctor
gazing gravely at the worn carpet, the other struggling for
self-control. At last Newbold spoke, in the harsh tone which often comes
first after great emotion.

"You mean that there is--no hope?"

And the doctor, relieved at the loosening of the tension, answered
readily, glad to merge his humanity in his professional capacity: "No,
Mr. Newbold; I do not mean just that. It is this bleak climate, the raw
winds from the lake, which make it impossible for your mother to take
the first step which might lead to recovery. There is, in fact--" he
hesitated. "I may say that there is no hope for her cure while here. But
if she is taken to a warm climate at once--at once--within two
weeks--and kept there until summer, then, although I have not the gift
of prophecy, yet I believe she would be in time a well woman. No
medicine, can do it, but out-of-doors and warmth would do it--probably."

He put out his hand with a smile. "I am indeed glad that I may temper
judgment with mercy," he said. "Try the south, Mr. Newbold,--try
Bermuda, for instance. The sea air and the warmth there might set your
mother up marvellously." And as the young man stared at him
unresponsively he gave a grasp to the hand he held, and turning, found
his way out alone. He stumbled down the dark steps of the third-rate
apartment-house and into his brougham, and as the rubber tires bowled
him over the asphalt he communed with himself:

"Queer about those Newbolds. Badly off, of course, to live in that
place, yet they know what it means to call me in. There must be some
money. I wonder if they have enough for a trip, poor souls. Bah! they
must have--everybody has when it comes to life and death. They'll get it
somehow--rich relations and all that. Burr Claflin is their cousin, I
know. David Newbold himself was rich enough five years ago, when he ma