"
"And I insist upon your telling me."
"And I think you are quite right, sir, as her father. Well, she is
troubled with a little spitting of blood."
Mr. Lusignan turned pale. "My child! spitting of blood! God forbid!"
"Oh, do not alarm yourself. It is nothing serious."
"Don't tell me!" said the father. "It is always serious. And she kept
this from me!"
Masking his agitation for the time, he inquired how often it had
occurred, this grave symptom.
"Three or four times this last month. But I may as well tell you at
once: I have examined her carefully, and I do not think it is from the
lungs."
"From the throat, then?"
"No; from the liver. Everything points to that organ as the seat
of derangement: not that there is any lesion; only a tendency to
congestion. I am treating her accordingly, and have no doubt of the
result."
"Who is the ablest physician hereabouts?" asked Lusignan, abruptly.
"Dr. Snell, I think."
"Give me his address."
"I'll write to him, if you like, and appoint a consultation." He added,
with vast but rather sudden alacrity, "It will be a great satisfaction
to my own mind."
"Then send to him, if you please, and let him be here to-morrow morning;
if not, I shall take her to London for advice at once.
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