Edmund looked down and did not reply very readily. "I am afraid we must
not hope for that; we must be satisfied as long as he does not lose
ground, and I certainly think he has had less pain of late."

A little more conversation passed between Edmund and the good wife, and
a few words from Marian; after which they set off across one or two
fields towards the place of their destination, Marian carrying her
little sketching-basket in silence for some distance, until she suddenly
exclaimed, "Edmund, is papa really getting worse?"

"Why should you think so, Marian?"

"I don't know, only from what you say when people inquire after him; and
sometimes when I come to think about it, I believe he can do less than
last year. He gets up later, and does not go out so often, and now you
say he will never get quite well, and I always thought he would."

"No, I am afraid there is no likelihood of that, Marian: the doctors say
he may be much better, but never quite well."

"But do you think he is better?"

"He has had less suffering of late, certainly, and so far we must be
thankful; but, as you say, Marian, I am afraid he is weaker than last
time I was at home, and I thought him much altered when I came. Still I
do not think him materially worse, and I believe I might have thought
him improved, if I had been here all the winter."

Marian became silent again, for her disposition was not to express her