been fetched from London, had almost given
up hope. The patient's strength seemed
exhausted; he lay motionless, almost lifeless,
his nervous hands were wan and passive, or
convulsed by feeble twitterings; the wavy
hair, which used to fall in such comely masses
about his face was all gone; his manly beauty
withered like the leaves in autumn.

Who can tell what were Lady Irwin's
thoughts as she sat through those long nights
and days by the wreck of him whom she had
taught herself by slow degrees to regard as
the enemy of her son? Who can tell how
much of her old tenderness to the fair
motherless boy returned; how the helplessness
of the suffering man recalled the weakness
and dependence of the child; how the
fever-parched lips awakened memories of the
sweet firm lips that had so often pressed hers,
and the joyous love of the child's close
embrace. Prostrate—helpless—there was nothing
antagonistic there. Helen Irwin was of a
temper too lofty to war with the powerless.

After a long time there came a dawn of
hope. The youthful constitution, the careful
tending, the earnest prayers, prevailed, and
Death released his prey. Deep thankfulness
and silent joy succeeded to despair in
Catherine's heart. Sir Edward came out of his
study and walked again among his trees;
Edward scampered over hill and dale, to
tame the spirit of his horse, wanton with
too long idleness. The crisis was past;
Frank would recover—slowly, tediously—but
he would recover.

With the danger, Lady Irwin's care ceased.
No sooner did he open his eyes upon her,
animated by intelligence; no sooner did
health-bringing sleep return to him than she
withdrew from his chamber, leaving him to
the attendance of the hired nurses, and only
paying occasional visits to his room, which
became shorter and rarer as he progressed in
his recovery. His convalescence was tedious
and wearisome, with many lets and
hindrances, much lassitude and frequent suffering;
but whatever aid art or science could
afford to alleviate the one or remove the
other was used unsparingly, and the light of
love gladdened him. Catherine seemed to
have lost all recollection of her own worn
health and spirits in the necessity for
encouraging and strengthening him. Full of
gratitude for the great mercy vouchsafed to
her in his preservation, her joy manifested
itself in a sweet and innocent gaiety—a cheerful
lovingness of spirit, that shed sunshine
over the life of her betrothed, and helped
him more than anything else to the recovery
of his strength. Her gratitude to Lady Irwin
was so warm that it overcame the dread she
had been accustomed to feel in her presence;
and though Lady Irwin was still cold and
stately in her manner towards her, Catherine
had won something upon her regard. She
could no longer look upon her as a being without
passion; the feeling she had shown was
unmistakable, and just of the kind which Lady
Irwin could appreciate. Loud lamentations
or stormy grief she would have despised;
but she sympathised with the stony agony
of her countenance and her voiceless despair.
She could no longer think her impassive or
commonplace. She might hate, but she could
not now despise her.

Her mind at that period was in a
struggling, combating, fluctuating condition.
Agnese revenged her late slight by almost
unbroken silence, which Lady Irwin, too
proud to make concessions, repaid with
haughty contempt. Sir Edward, charmed
out of all suspicion by the extraordinary
devotion of her attendance on his son,
had returned to something like a lover's
tenderness. It seemed almost as if the evil
thought which had long nestled in the
depths of her heart might be crushed—
perhaps, but for the Italian woman, it might
have been. But Satan little loves to quit a
tenement in which he has been welcomed and
cherished; and evil acts are the legitimate
offspring of evil thoughts.

CHAPTER XII.

IT was some two months since the favourable
turn had taken place, and Frank had
begun to amend, when, coming home from
his usual evening stroll to the Parsonage, he
met his father, smoking his cigar, under the
lime-trees, by the river-side.

"Well, my boy," said Sir Edward, "you
don't look very brilliant yet. A month or so
in Devonshire would set you up nicely."

"Indeed, sir, I am perfectly well," returned
his son in alarm. "The evening is unusually
warm, and we walked a little too far. I hope
you are not thinking of sending me away
again so soon?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, I've been
hatching a little plan that I don't think you'll
object to. You know there is a small estate
in Devonshire, which belonged to your mother.
The house is not much more than a cottage,
but it is very pretty and compact. Captain
Martyn, who has rented it for these fifteen
years, has been for some time in failing
health; and I have this evening received
intimation of his death. As I supposed
probable, his widow does not wish to continue
my tenant; and it has occurred to me that if
the house were brightened up a little—it's
very pretty, and the scenery about it splendid
—it might not be so bad for you and
Kitty, just for a year or two, till, my shoes
are ready for you. This would make everything
smooth. Not that I want to send you
away, my dear fellow. God knows, the house
will be dull enough without you both!"

"We cannot expect you to make such a
sacrifice for us, sir," said Frank, his cheek
glowing with surprise and pleasure.

"O, as to that, the less we say of that, the
better. The property was your mother's; so
it is a matter of mere justice. My idea is,