"Mamma," said the little girl, "I did write you that he was getting
weaker and weaker; that he was no longer able to walk, or even drive out,
and had wakeful, restless nights. I thought you would certainly want to
come to him when you heard that. But don't worry; Dr. Taylor has changed
the medicine, and I hope he will soon be better now."
"No, he wont; he'll not live a month!" she exclaimed half angrily; then
glancing at Evelyn's pale, terror-stricken face, "Pshaw, child! don't be
frightened," she said; "I did not really mean it; I dare say we shall
have him about again in a few weeks."
"Mamma, what _do_ you _really_ think?" asked the little girl, clasping
her hands and gazing into her mother's face with a look of agonized
entreaty. "I know you believe in deceiving people sometimes when you
think it for their good, for I have heard you say so; but I want to know
the truth, even if it breaks my heart."
"I'm not a doctor, Evelyn," returned her mother coldly; "I can judge only
from appearances, which are as visible to you as to me. Besides, what is
the use of my giving my opinion, since you choose to believe I am capable
of intentionally deceiving you?"
With the last word she sailed from the room, leaving Evelyn alone in the
parlor, where the conversation had taken place.
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