"
VII.
A VISIT WITH THE DOCTOR.
"HOW are you to-day, Mrs. Carleton?" asked Dr. Farleigh, as he sat
down by his patient, who reclined languidly in a large cushioned
chair.
"Miserable," was the faintly spoken reply. And the word was
repeated,--"Miserable."
The doctor took one of the lady's small, white hands, on which the
network of veins, most delicately traced, spread its blue lines
everywhere beneath the transparent skin. It was a beautiful hand--a
study for a painter or sculptor. It was a soft, flexible hand--soft,
flexible, and velvety to the touch as the hand of a baby, for it was
as much a stranger to useful work. The doctor laid his fingers on
the wrist. Under the pressure he felt the pulse beat slowly and
evenly. He took out his watch and counted the beats, seventy in a
minute. There was a no fever, nor any unusual disturbance of the
system. Calmly the heart was doing its appointed work.
"How is your head, Mrs. Carleton?"
The lady moved her head from side to side two or three times.
"Anything out of the way there?"
"My head is well enough, but I feel so miserable--so weak. I haven't
the strength of a child.
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