The Argosy — page 268: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Court Netherleigh. 251 “Tf I die, will my death be sudden?” she one day startled the Swiss doctor by asking him. “Vou will not die, you will get well,” replied Monsieur Le Brun. “Tf you will only be reasonable, be it understood, and second our efforts to make you so, by wishing for it yourself,” he added. “T do wish it,” she murmured ; though her tone was apathetical enough. ‘But I said to you zf I die—and I want the question an- swered, sir. Would there be time to send for any friends from Eng- land that I ray wish to see.” ‘ Ample time, miladi.” ‘‘ Harriet,” whispered she to her sister that same night, “‘mind you send for Mr. Grubb when I get into that state that I cannot recover from—if I do get into it. W7ll you ?” ‘‘Good gracious, what next!” retorted Harriet. ‘‘Who says you will not recover?” “T could not die in peace without seeing my husband—without asking for his forgiveness,” pleaded the poor invalid, bitter tears of regret for the past slowly coursing down her cheeks. “You will be sure to send in time, won’t you, Harriet ? ” “Yes, yes, I promise it,” answered Harriet, humouring the fancy ; and she set herself to kiss and soothe her sister. Lady Harriet MacIvor, who resembled her mother more than any of the rest, both in person and quickness of temper, had been tart enough with Adela before the illness declared itself, freely avowing that she had no patience with people who fretted themselves sick ; but when the fever had really come she became a tender and efficient nurse. The sickness and the danger passed—though, of danger, there had not perhaps been very much—and Adela was up again. With the passing, Lady Harriet resumed her tendency to set the world and its pilgrims to rights, especially Adela. January was well on now. The fever had left her very weak. In fact, it had not yet wholly taken itself away. She would recline in the large easy chair, utterly inert, day after day, recalling dreams of the past. Thinking of the luxurious home she had lost, one that might have been all brightness ; picturing how she would do this and that to render it so, were the opportunity still hers. For hours she would lose herself in recollections of the child she had lost—the little boy, George. A rush of fever would pass through her veins as she recalled her behaviour at its baptism: her scornful rejection of her husband’s name, Francis; her unseemly interruption from her bed to the clergyman that the name should be George. How she yearned after the little child now! Had he lived—why, surely her husband would not have put her away from him! A man may not, and does not, put away the mother of his child; it could .never have been. Would she have had the child—or he? Would he have kept it, or allowed her to take it? No, no; with that CONNICMHOOKS. EO