There was a long silence. Tears falling
like genial rain, and a joy so solemn, that
they held their breath as they stood locked
hand in hand beneath the arch of the spring
heavens.

When the first rapture of their meeting was
over, Catherine's anxious eyes detected marks
of uncontrollable suffering in her lover's
countenance. His eyes, which looked larger and
brighter than they were wont to look, were
circled with black rings, his hands were
parched, and the bronzed hue of his
complexion told of fatigue and exposure rather
than of health.

The imprudence with which he had acted
was too evident. The marsh fever was still
hanging about him when he set out on his
hasty journey. The excitement produced by
Edward's letter, which confirmed his worst
fears, had rendered him for the time superior
and insensible to his bodily infirmity. A
troubled night, hardly visited by rare snatches
of sleep, at last brought the morning, when
he was once again to see her, made so much
dearer by absence and by sorrow, borne for his
sake. The cold water with which he bathed
his burning temples stilled their throbbing
for awhile; the fresh air, and the near hope of
seeing his beloved, deadened the aching of his
limbs and the fever in his throat; but now that
the first joy of meeting was over, that he had
held her in his arms, and felt her still all his
own, he was obliged to succumb to the lassitude
that oppressed him, and to acknowledge
the too evident fact that he was not well.

He returned home in the hope that a few
hours' rest might restore him; but Nature is
a stern avenger, and exacts a heavy fine for
over-taxed or abused powers. The excitement
and disquietude in which he had lived for the
last eighteen months had gradually undermined
his vigorous constitution. The unexpressed
displeasure of his stepmother weighed upon
his heart with a foreboding which defied all
his efforts to shake it off, and filled him with
vague and paralysing alarm. During the
first few months of his residence abroad the
variety of interests which crowded upon him
had distracted his attention; Catherine's
letters full of hopeful tenderness quieted his
anxiety on her account; while Lady Irwin
herself, relieved by his absence, wrote with
cordiality, almost with affection. But when
the novelty of foreign life began to wear off,
when Lady Irwin had returned to Swallowfield,
and, irritated by Catherine's frequent
presence, and by the affection with which Sir
Edward treated her, either ceased to write
to the traveller, or wrote only letters so hard
and dry, that the effort they had cost was too
palpable to be mistaken; when Catherine's
depression became evident in spite of her
attempted cheerfulness; Frank's buoyancy
of spirit gave way, and he began to succumb
to the effects of the climate, which trying as
it is to many English constitutions, did not
suit him, and neglected such precautions as
might, perhaps, have preserved him in health
and inured him to it.

So, now the fever, which had been checked,
flew to the head; the overtaxed brain ceased
to discharge its healthy office; his ravings
were wild and incessant; his heart troubles
mixing themselves up incongruously with
scenes of foreign adventure; he called often
and piteously on the name of his beloved, who
seemed to his distempered fancy to be in
fearful danger; with wild supplication or
stormy menace he sought to protect her
from a powerful but unnamed enemy. The
whole household was filled with consternation.
Sir Edward stood gazing on his fiery
vacant eyes with an anguish too big for tears.
Poor Edward ran vainly to and fro,
overwhelming himself with reproaches for the
heedless rashness with which he had
communicated his suspicions to his brother.
Catherine, pale and tremulous, crept from the
Parsonage to the Hall, seeking for tidings she
dared not ask for; her still woe-begone
countenance, and eager tearless eyes, were
not the least grievous sight in all those
grievous days. Sir Edward meeting her, lost
the recollection of his own sorrow, and wept
for the poor child who had no tears for
herself.

Strange and strong was the conflict of
Lady Irwin's feelings. The moment when the
dear wish of her heart would be gratified
seemed to have arrived; the life which stood
between her son and the inheritance was
fluttering on the verge of eternity. Agnese
did not fail to offer congratulations, and with
dark pupils distending to suggest that a
slight mistake in the giving of a potion might
make that certain which was already
probable. Lady Irwin rejected the suggestion
with indignation, and devoted herself with
energy to the care of the sufferer; she shrunk
from the presence of her confidante, and if
by chance they met, she hurried by her as if
she had been some venomous creature: above
all, she sedulously guarded the approach to
the sick man's chamber, gave him his
medicines herself, and administering nothing without
previously subjecting it to a careful
examination.

She seemed insensible to fatigue. Hour
after hour, day after day, she went to and fro
in the sick room, with pale set features, like
one acting under strong excitement, or afraid
to break a spell. She hardly spoke, either
in answer to the grateful thanks of her
husband, or to the passionate caresses of her
son; but one day, when Catherine crept to
her, and kissed her hand in token of the
gratitude she could not speak, Lady Irwin stopped
as she was traversing the corridor, and bending
her head, pressed her lips on the brow of
the trembling girl.

"Poor child," she said, "go and pray, and
see if that will comfort thee."

It was at the time when the fever was at
its height; the Doctors, of whom two had