“Nor would I be willing to so pain the hearts of those who love me.  I am ready to submit at once to whatever you deem necessary or expedient.  But ah, my dear father!  How distressed he will be when he learns all that you have just told me!  I wish he might be spared the knowledge till all is over.  But it would not do.  He must be told at once, and—­I must tell him.”

“That will be very hard for you, dear cousin; would it not be better——­” Arthur began, but paused, leaving his sentence unfinished.

“It will come best from me, I think,” she returned, with a sad sort of smile.  “But when?”

“Day after to-morrow, if you will.  I think you would prefer to have the trial over as soon as possible?”

“Yes; I think it will save both me and all concerned from some of the suffering of anticipation, if you can make it suit your convenience.”

“Perfectly,” he answered; “there are few preparations to be made and I do not want long to contemplate doing what must be a trial to so many whom I love.”

Their talk had been in her boudoir.  He lingered but a few moments longer, then went down to the drawing-room.

“Uncle,” he said, in a low aside to Mr. Dinsmore, “I have just left Cousin Elsie in her boudoir and she wishes to see you there.”

“She is not well, Arthur?” asked the old gentleman, with a slightly startled look, as he rose from his easy chair and the two passed out into the hall together.

“Not very, uncle,” was the sad-toned reply.  “She has been consulting me and there is something she wishes to say to you.”

Mr. Dinsmore paled to the very lips.  “Don’t keep me in suspense, Arthur; let me know the worst, at once,” he said, with almost a groan.  “Why has anything been hidden from me—­the father who loves her better than his life?”

“I have been as ignorant as yourself, uncle, till within the last half hour,” replied the doctor, in a patient, deeply sympathizing tone.  “It is astonishing to me that she has been able to endure so much for weeks or months past without a word of complaint.  But do not despair, my dear uncle; the case is by no means hopeless.”

“Tell me all, Arthur; hide nothing, nothing from me,” Mr. Dinsmore said with mingled sternness and entreaty, hastily leading the way as he spoke to the little reception room opening from the other side of the hall, and closing the door against any chance intruder.

Arthur complied, stating the case as briefly as possible, and laying strong emphasis upon the fact that there was reason to hope for, not spared life alone, but entire and permanent relief.

“God grant it!” was the old gentleman’s fervent, half agonized response.  “My darling, my darling! would that I could bear all the suffering for you!  Arthur, when—­when must my child go through the trial which you say is—­not to be escaped?”

“We have agreed upon the day after to-morrow, uncle, both she and I wishing to have it over as soon as possible.”