Mr. Weston trembled, and burst into tears.  “Try and not give way,” said Miss Janet again; “we are doing all we can.  We must hope and pray.  I feel a great deal of hope.  God is so merciful, he will not bring this stroke upon you in your old age, unless it is necessary.  Why do you judge for him?  He is mighty to save.  ’The Lord on high, is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.’  Think of His mercy and power to save, and trust in Him.”

In these most trying scenes of life, how little do we sympathize with the physician.  How much oppressed he must feel, with the charge upon him.  He is the adviser—­to him is left the direction of the potions which may be the healing medicine or the deadly poison.  He may select a remedy powerful to cure, he may prescribe one fatal to the invalid.  How is he to draw the nice line of distinction? he must consider the disease, the constitution, the probable causes of the attack.  His reputation is at stake—­his happiness—­for many eyes are turned to him, to read an opinion he may not choose to give in words.

If he would be like the great Healer, he thinks not only of the bodily sufferings that he is anxious to assuage, but of the immortal soul on the verge of the great Interview, deciding its eternal destiny.  He trembles to think, should he fail, it may be hurried to its account.  If he be a friend, how do the ties of association add to his burden.  Here is one whom he has loved, whose voice he is accustomed to hear; shall he, through neglect or mismanagement, make a void in many hearts?  Shall he, from want of skill, bring weeping and desolation to a house where health and joy have been?  Alice was very dear to Dr. Lawton, she was the companion of his daughters; he had been accustomed to regard her as one of them; he was untiring in his attendance, but from the first, had feared the result.  Mrs. Weston had concealed nothing from him, she knew that he considered a physician bound in honour to know the affairs of a family only among themselves—­she had no reserves, thus giving him every assistance in her power, in conducting the case.  She detailed to him, explicitly, all that might have contributed to produce it.

“You know, my dear madam,” the doctor said, “that at this season we have, even in our healthy country, severe fevers.  Alice’s is one of the usual nature; it could have been produced by natural causes.  We cannot say, it may be that the circumstances you have been kind enough to confide to me, have had a bad effect upon her.  The effort to do right, and the fear lest she should err, may have strained her sensitive mind.  She must have felt much distress in parting with Walter, whom she has always loved as a brother.  You have only done your duty.  I should not like to see a daughter of mine interested in that young man.  I fear he inherits his father’s violent passions, yet his early training may bring the promised blessing.  Alice has that sort of mind, that is always influenced by what is passing at the time; remember what a child she was when Arthur left.  There are no more broken hearts now-a-days—­sometimes they bend a little, but they can be straightened again.  If Alice gets well, you need not fear the future; though you know I disapprove of cousins marrying.”