Mrs. Talbot did not believe in doctors, and suggested nourishing soups
and port wine as a substitute. These, however, made those dear arms no
fatter, they put none of that promised flesh on Jenny's bones. (Why did
Theophil rather creep one day as Mrs. Talbot made use of that
expression?)

And Jenny was growing tired too. She was not so ready on her feet as she
used to be. Small exertions exhausted her. Her breath was not so
available for running up and down stairs as it had been.

Then Theophil would have a doctor, who sounded Jenny, and looked a
little grave, but finally, reassured, asked her if she had had a
shock,--Jenny smiled rather knowingly, but denied it,--declared her a
little run down and in need of bracing and nourishment, prescribed
phosphites and steel.

Then Jenny got very wet one day on her way from school, and she began to
cough. She had to stay at home, and bed was perhaps the best place for
her. So Jenny went to bed, and looked very pretty there, and was quite
merry of an evening when Theophil, bringing her flowers,--he was already
bringing her flowers,--would draw up the arm-chair by her side, and read
to her. Those were very sweet hours, perhaps the sweetest their love had
ever known, so cosy and homelike, and yet without fear.

But one evening, when Jenny had been coughing, there was blood on the
bosom of her nightdress, and as Theophil saw it, his heart stood still
with terror. Jenny grew very white, too, as she saw it, though the awful
thought which was behind the still look they gave each other was not
quite new to her. Sometimes she might have been heard softly saying over
to herself,--