Rue¹ was lying on her bed, propped² up by pillows into a half-sitting posture³. Her breath came raspingly and painfully, and she had the dingy⁴ pallor wherewith disease is wont⁵ to write itself on the African face.

"Is it death?" she asked, hoarsely⁶, when the doctor had finished his examination. "Because, if it is, I should be glad to know in time to send for Master Bergan,—I mean, Mr. Arling."

Doctor Remy looked down upon the blind woman with a grave,—almost a frowning, face—which she could not see.

"So you are attached to Mr. Arling," said he.

"Certainly, sir," replied Rue, simply. "He is Miss Eleanor's son, you know."

If Doctor Remy did not know, he could easily understand. He was aware that the daughter of a Southern house remains⁷ "Miss Eleanor" (or whatever the Christian⁸ name might be) to the end of her days, with the dusky home population, although, in the meantime, she may have become a great-grandmother. Moreover, various scattered⁹ shreds¹⁰ of rumor¹¹ came to his recollection, enough to afford a tolerably accurate explanation of the blind woman's reason for desiring to see Bergan Arling at her bedside. And though the matter would seem to be no concern of his, it is certain that he gave it a moment or two of profound study, ere he answered the question which Rue had addressed to him. Indeed, it was very much Doctor Remy's habit—as it is that of selfish natures in general—to consider all events mainly with reference to their bearing upon his own interests, and to hold them important or trivial, according to the degree of favorable or

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