"My old friend is very ill. The cold
weather is more than he can bear. Come in
and see him."

She opened the door, and I entered with
her. The old man lay upon his trestle
bedstead, near the fire; beside him, on the
table, were some medicine bottles. He raised
his head, and seemed to listen at my approach;
then, sunk again upon his pillow.

"Here is some one you know come to see
you," said Arny, leaning over him.

"Aye, aye," he replied. " It is Mr. Elwood.
I am much obliged to him." I walked over,
and shook hands with him. He was very
old, and his trembling hand was tawny brown,
and drawn up by paralysis at the knuckles.

"Has he no one to attend on him but you,
Amy?" said I.

"Not now," she said. " I sent his nurse
away today, for speaking to him harshly.
The housekeeper and I will watch him
tonight in turns."

She turned towards the door, and begging
me to wait there a moment, while she ran
home, went out and shut the door
noiselessly. When she came back, her uncle was
with her, and I appealed to him to allow me
to watch the old man instead of Amy; but
Amy pleaded her friendship for her charge,
and begged to be allowed to stay.

"No, no, no," said her uncle. " You must
come home, Amy. The young, and beautiful,
and tender-hearted are not fit for nurses.
The old are sterner, but they know what to
do, and do it, if they do not feel for the sick.
But you are inexperienced—and you would
sit and grieve all night. Come, you are not
strong yourself; and if you were to die, I
know not what I should do." I saw a tear
upon the old man's face. Amy saw it too;
she said not a word in answer, but bidding
the sick man be patient, turned, and gave me
"good night," and then took her uncle's arm,
and went away with him.

The hours passed slowly, as I sat before the
fire. I sat upon a low chair looking into the
live coals. Sometimes I buried my face in
my hands, and thought of Amy; but with a
feeling of anxiety, for which I could scarcely
account. I felt, almost instinctively, that the
love of the old man for his niece, though of a
different kind to mine, was yet destined to
thwart me, and perhaps to part us in the
end for ever. I had a habit of trusting to
such instincts, for I knew they were, in fact,
the subtlest deductions of the mind, though
working blindly, and with facts noted in
secret, and in secret stored. I knew the power
of the old man upon her, bound to him as she
was by feelings of gratitude and affection, and
I feared lest some prejudice, arising from that
childish querulousness which he seemed to
display towards all but her, might lead him
to speak harshly of me, or to forbid her
holding converse with me. Knowing how he
had hitherto kept her from meeting me, I
imagined many plans which he might devise,
acting under a childish apprehension, in order
to remove her from me.

It must have been near midnight, when I
heard a knock at the door, and going there,
found Amy.

"I came over before going to bed, to ask
how he is," she said.

"He has slept, ever since you left."

"I have brought you a book, and the
housekeeper will come and take your place early in
the morning. Good night."

"Good night, Amy."

She glided like a ghost over the silencing
snow, and was gone. I waited there awhile,
looking towards the house, until I saw a light at
her window; soon afterwards the blinds were
dark, and I returned and sat down again, to
read before the fire. The housekeeper came
at last, and wrapping my cloak about me, I
went home.

The old man continued ill for some days.
I was at his habitation constantly, meeting
Amy there. The nights were moonlight
still; and many times I saw her flit to and
fro between her uncle's door and his, and
sometimes through the outlet into the
street. I seldom saw any one else but her
now. The snow was not thawed; the icicles
hung to the water-taps and the rain-spouts,
and along the gutters under the roof. The
shadows were heavier by their contrast with
the light upon the snow, and the projections
and angles of walls were blacker and more
sharp. And, all day long, the silence was so
perfect, that it seemed to me that only Amy
dwelt there, and I lived entranced; for, never,
in the calmest and remotest region of my
fancy, had I built a home more pure and
beautiful—a habitation, to my mind, more fit
for her. The old man had been lying ill a
fortnight, when one afternoon I was as usual
in the library, and Amy carne through to
me. I had been absent some hours, and had
just returned, so that she had sought me there,
perhaps, before. I looked up at her, before
she spoke, and said:

"The old man is dead?"

"He is," said Amy. " The chaplain found
him lying still, and said he had passed from
darkness into light."

There were tears in her eyes. I watched
her, as she stood there, silent, for some
moments, keeping in my ear the words that she
had spoken. The solemn news that she had
brought me, and her sorrowing attitude, had
given to her an air so beautiful and saintlike
that my love rose within me to its height.
She came, at length, and held out her hand,
to shake hands with me. She had not done
so before. She did so, now, in that feeling
which leads us, when we turn away from
death, to draw more closely to the living, and
to treat with kindness those whom we have
yet to speak with. I took her hand, and
did not let it go; but walked with her
to the door leading into the passage, where
I had seen her first. I held the handle