"He asked after you, Bessie, and when you would go to see him," the
doctor went on.
"I will go now. It is not too late? he is not too tired? will he be
glad?" Bessie said, all in a breath.
"Yes, he wants to talk to you; but you will have to walk all the way,
dear, and alone, for I have to go the other road."
"Oh, the walk will not hurt me. And when I have seen him I will go back
to Fairfield. But tell me what ails him: has he been over-working, or is
it the results of his illness?" Bessie was very earnest to know all
there was to be known.
"Work is not to blame: the lad was always more or less delicate, though
his frame was so powerful," Mr. Carnegie said with gravity. "He is out
of spirits, and he has had a warning to beware of the family complaint.
That is not to say it has marked him yet--he may live for years, with
care and prudence live to a good old age--but there is no public career
before him; and it is a terrible prospect, this giving up and coming
down, to a young fellow of his temper. His mother sits and looks at him,
beats on her knee, deplores the money spent on his college education,
and frets; you must try your hand at some other sort of consolation,
Bessie, for that will never do. Now, if you are going, my dear, you had
better start."
Mrs. Carnegie wished she could have offered herself as Bessie's
companion, but she would have been an impediment rather than a help, and
Bessie set out alone.
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