n
inadvertence, Betty produced her handkerchief.

"Never mind, Betty; _I_ always understand you," said Mrs. Thorne,
graciously.

But it soon became evident that though she might understand Betty she
did not understand Melissa, at least not so fully as she supposed she
did, for, not long after her visit at the eyrie, she fell ill. On the
fifth day it was feared that her illness had taken a dangerous turn; the
delicate little cough with which they had been acquainted so long, in
the various uses she put it to, that they had almost come to consider it
a graceful accomplishment, this cough had all the time had its own
character under the assumed ones, and its own character was simply an
indication of a bronchial affection, which had now assumed a serious
phase, sending inflammation down to the lungs.

"Her lungs have never been good," said Dr. Kirby to Winthrop; the Doctor
was much affected by the danger of his poor little friend. "She has
never had any chest to speak of, none at all." And the Doctor tapped his
own wrathfully, and brought out a sounding expletive, the only one
Winthrop had ever heard him use; he applied it to New-Englanders,
New-Englanders in general.

The Doctor went back to East Angels. And in the late afternoon Winthrop
himself rode down there. The little mistress of the house was very ill;
besides Garda, the Doctor, his mother, and Mrs. Carew were in
attendance. He saw only Mrs. Carew. She told him that Mrs. Thorne was
very much disturbed mentally, as well as very ill, that she seemed
unable to allow Garda out of her sight; when she did not see her at the
bedside, she kept calling for her in her weak voice in a way that was
most distressing to hear; Garda therefore now remained in the room day
and night, save for the few moments, now and then, when her mother fell
into a troubled sleep. The Doctor was very anxious. They were all very
anxious.

Winthrop rode back to Gracias, he went to the eyrie. Mrs. Rutherford was
out, she was taking a short stroll with the Rev. Mr. Moore. Margaret was
on the east piazza; she was bending her head over some fine knitting.

"I'll wait for Aunt Katrina," said Winthrop, taking a chair near her.
"Knitting for the poor, I suppose. Do you know, I always suspect ladies
who knit for the poor; I suspect that they knit for themselves--the
occupation."

"So they do, generally. But this isn't for the poor; don't you see that
it's silk?"

"You could sell it. In the Charit