not, I think, more white and wild than mine
became in those hours of misery.

It was during the second night of our
watching that the physician, for whom Paul
had telegraphed from London, arrived. I
heard the hoarse grating of the carriage-wheels
over the gravel. I knew that he was
come, and with him, I hardly doubted, relief
for Sir Edward. He came up-stairs immediately,
and entered the room with a quiet,
cautious tread. I could hardly bear the
suspense of those moments. I crept out into the
dark ante-room, and stood there straining with
expectation, and vainly trying to forget that it
was for a verdict of life or death that I
waited. Sir Edward's great dog left the side
of the door, where he had lain ever since his
master had been taken ill, and came to me
with a strange, piteous whine.

At length the physician left the patient's
room, and Paul followed him, pressing him
for an opinion. They did not see me standing
there in the faint moonlight, and I was
too anxious, too eager, to move; so they
spoke out the cruel truth plainly, and I
drank in their words as some poor creature
mad with thirst, might snatch and swallow
poison.

"Did you say there was no hope?" said
Paul. My breath came and went quick.

"Not a shadow," the physician replied;
"I do not see a chance of recovery with that
pulse, and I am not apt to give up a case.
You haven't gained much by bringing me
down here, you see," he added, lightly, as he
and Paul passed on into the gallery.

I tried to go towards the room; but my
strength failed. I sank to the ground like
one paralysed. As I crouched there, in the
darkness, I heard my name loaded with
reproaches. In delirious anguish my
faithlessness was denounced for killing its victim,
and, in that manner, avenging Lawrence.
These reproaches had enough of terrible sense
in them to sound more than mere raving.
But, through the tumult of my grief, holy
words of promise rose to my remembrance—
"Ask, and it shall be given unto you." I
raised my hands in an agony of supplication,
and prayed for Edward's recovery with
intense longing.

I do not know why I longed for it so
earnestly, remembering always as I did that
when he got well I must leave him. I
suppose I had unconsciously some expectation
that, if he lived, he would in some way learn
how true I had been to him; and, before death,
give me one word or look of gratitude. I
rose, strengthened and comforted, and went
to him.

The crisis of the fever passed. Sir Ed ward's
strength had been spent in the fury of his
delirium, and he lay prostrate and weak as a
little child; but he lived, my prayers were
heard. Death had hovered very near;
but at His commands, he spread his black
pinions and fled. I watched on day and night
by Sir Edward till he was out of danger, and
his consciousness returned. Then Paul bade
me go home, and there was a gentle pity in
his voice that filled my heart with a new
hope.

He still stayed at the Hall, nursing Sir
Edward. Twice or three times every day
he sent me short bulletins; and, on the
expectation of these, I seemed to live. Each day Sir
Edward was getting better. Each day I felt
sure that Paul's heart was softening towards
him, and yearning more and more to proffer
forgiveness. One day (it was more than a
week after the crisis) Paul's note was longer
than it had ever been before.

"I have told Sir Edward everything—my threat
which Heaven has taught me to repent, and your sacrifice.
His joy when I told him why you had parted
from him, was so great that I was quite afraid lest its
effects should throw him back. I must tell you what
he says; for, at present it would be dangerous for him
to see you. He declares, that I was quite deceived in
thinking that he felt no remorse in meeting us; and
that it was only from a strong desire to make every
reparation in his power, that, by giving me this living,
he insured our home so near his. He says, that he
had a shuddering reluctance to meet those whom he
had so deeply injured; but that, directly he had seen
you, he felt it impossible to stop his intercourse with
us. He blames himself bitterly for the sorrow he has
caused you by the cowardly concealment of his crime
when he engaged himself to you. When he heard of
your determination to part from him, he naturally
concluded that it resulted from indignation at his conduct,
with which I had told him we were acquainted. But
he now knows how it all was. He says, that ever since
then he has been making most earnest efforts to
subdue the passionate heat of temper which drove
him to his crime; but that he had determined not to
plead for your forgiveness till he could prove, by his
having conquered his evil disposition, that he had
striven hard to earn it. These are nearly his words.
I believe that he meant to have seen you, to tell you
all this himself, during this visit to Lichendale; and
that his anxiety as to your answer, in great measure,
brought on the fever. His repentance has been bitter;
but a day of gladness has dawned.—Yours, P. M."

My tears fell fast and thick as I finished
this letter, but through them I saw
Lawrence's eyes shining from his portrait
on the wall,—bright and glad, and it
seemed to me as if his spirit spoke through
them, rejoicing with me, and sanctioning my
perfect happiness.

"Helena," said Sir Edward to me the
other day, "miserable as those three years
were, even if it were possible, I would
not have them undone. They taught
me how previous you were; and, in striving
to win you back, my love for you helped
me to overcome evil in many a fierce
conflict."

"That time has done us all good," I said.
"It made Paul and me love each other, as we
should never otherwise have done. I see
now how sorrow is sent with divinely
merciful purposes."