His emissaries were prompt. In less than ten minutes, all the
appliances the household could furnish for the restoration of the
failing life were at his command. An immense fire roared in the
long-disused chimney; warm blankets, bottles of hot water and
mustard-poultices were prepared by a corps of officious servants;
the master of the mansion, with three or four friends at his heels,
and a half-smoked cigar in his hand, had looked in for a moment, to
hope that Dr. Ritchie would not hesitate to order whatever was
needed, and to predict a favorable result as the meed of his skill.

Half an hour after her brother's visit, Mabel tapped at the door to
inquire how the patient was, and whether she could be of use in any
way. She still wore her evening dress, and the fire of excitement
had not gone out in her eyes and complexion.

"Don't sit up longer," said the doctor, with the authority of an old
friend. "It will not benefit your protege for you to have a
headache, pale cheeks, and heavy eyes to-morrow, while it will
render others, whose claims upon you are stronger, very miserable."

She thanked him laconically for his thoughtfulness, and bade him
"good-night," without a responsive gleam of playfulness. Her heart
was weighed down with sick horror. The almost certainty of which he
spoke with professional coolness, was to her, who had never within
her recollection stood beside a death-bed, a thing too frightful to
be anticipated without dread, however its terrors might be
alleviated by affection and wealth. As the finale of their Christmas
frolic--perhaps the consequence of wilful neglect in those who
should have known better than to abandon the wanderer to the ravages
of hunger, cold, and intoxication--the idea was ghastly beyond