long ago—Oh, God! how different it would have been!"
"Hear me now, then, Arthur," said I, gently pressing his hand.
"It's too late now," said he despondently. And after that another paroxysm of pain came on; and then his mind began to wander, and we feared his death was approaching; but an opiate was administered, his sufferings began to abate, he gradually became more composed, and at length sank into a kind of slumber. He has been quieter since; and now Hattersley has left him, expressing a hope that he shall find him better when he calls to-morrow.
"Perhaps, I may recover," he replied, "who knows?—this may have been the crisis. What do you think, Helen?"
Unwilling to depress him, I gave the most cheering answer I could, but still recommended him to prepare for the possibility of what I inly feared was but too certain. But he was determined to hope. Shortly after, he re-
