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190 "George is not so ill as I expected," Anna next wrote; "he is certainly weak, but there is nothing really serious the matter with him. I cannot help thinking—well, perhaps you can guess. Still, as I am here, I will not leave him till he is convalescent. I am not feeling very well. My eyes pain me. I am obliged to work at night when he is asleep. Of course, it is a strain. I hope to be out of the house on Saturday." The note was dated Thursday. On Sunday morning Sacheverell received the following:—

"Dear Sir,—My wife desires me to say that she has been unable to finish the drawings she promised you. She is not well enough to write herself, but she hopes to be able to do so in a few days.

During the four months that followed—months of such dull madness that it seemed sanity—Sacheverell managed to hear both directly and indirectly how she was. Not that inquiries were necessary—he knew by a strange instinct her good days and her bad days. He also knew that she would never recover.

"At one time you thought you would like to be a Bishop," said Eleanor; "now you have got your wish you don't seem to care a bit." "I believe I am called a Bishop," he answered, with a strange smile. "Poor Doddridge!"

Doddridge was his predecessor.