The acts were simple, and usual
in medicine, but there was a deep, patient, silent intensity about his
way of doing them.
Mr. Lusignan crept nearer, and stood with both hands on a table, and his
old head bowed, awaiting yet dreading the verdict.
Up to this time, Dr. Staines, instead of tapping and squeezing, and
pulling the patient about, had never touched her with his hand, and only
grazed her with his ear; but now he said "Allow me," and put both hands
to her waist, more lightly and reverently than I can describe; "Now draw
a deep breath, if you please."
"There!"
"If you could draw a deeper still," said he, insinuatingly.
"There, then!" said she, a little pettishly.
Dr. Staines's eye kindled.
"Hum!" said he. Then, after a considerable pause, "Are you better or
worse after each hemorrhage?"
"La!" said Rosa; "they never asked me that. Why, better."
"No faintness?"
"Not a bit."
"Rather a sense of relief, perhaps?"
"Yes; I feel lighter and better."
The examination was concluded.
Dr. Staines looked at Rosa, and then at her father. The agony in that
aged face, and the love that agony implied, won him, and it was to the
parent he turned to give his verdict.
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