On the second evening after her arrival, he had sunk into something more like natural sleep than the state of stupor in which he had hitherto lain. Fearful of moving, and thereby of disturbing him, Pelham had taken hold of the first book he could reach, and was reading it by the light of the lamp in the sick room. Emmeline was sitting at the foot of the bed, with her eyes fixed on her husband’s countenance, for it was serene and calm, and had more of its own natural expression than she had yet seen. At length, he moved, passed his hand over his eyes, which then rested on Emmeline, and endeavoured to raise himself. She saw that sensibility had returned; and not daring to advance towards him herself, she made sign to Mr. Pelham to come to him. “Where am I?” exclaimed Fitzhenry.—“I have been very ill, Pelham, have I not? I have no recollection—indeed, my head is still confused. I could even now fancy,” continued he, staring wildly on Emmeline, “that I see Lady Fitzhenry before me.” “Yes, dear Fitzhenry,” replied his friend, “you have been ill—long very ill; but you are now pronounced to be quite convalescent, and a few more days will, I trust, restore you even to strength.” “But my head is so weak—you will laugh at me Pelham—but I repeat it—I could swear that at this moment I see Lady Fitzhenry quite plainly sitting at the end of my bed; but I suppose it is all weakness, and that such odd delusions will go off—but how very strange such fancies are!” “Would you wish it to be no fancy?” said Pelham calmly: “would you like your delirious vision to be realized?” “Oh, Pelham, why do you talk in that way to me? you will only confuse my poor brain still more—you too well know how impossible it is.” “Do you still fancy you see her?” said Pelham. “Still—still: it is her very countenance, her melancholy expression; and she looks at me now—I almost fancy I see her breathe and move—Oh! Pelham, for God’s sake give me something to rouse me out of this miserably nervous state;” and Fitzhenry covered his eyes with both his hands. “Fitzhenry,” said Pelham, in a slow but tremulous voice, frightened at the possible effect of that which he was going to impart,—“what if I were to tell you that this is no sick dream—but that the figure before you, is in truth and reality Lady Fitzhenry, your Emmeline?” Fitzhenry gave a violent start, and grasped Pelham’s hand—“Good God! Lady Fitzhenry in reality, here!—Speak to her Pelham—I dare not, cannot.” Poor Emmeline, trembling with anxiety, had not courage to move or utter a single word, and during all this conversation had appeared the phantom her husband had taken her for. “Fitzhenry!” said Pelham, “compose yourself; you have nothing to fear from Lady Fitzhenry; affection alone brought her here—and you will at last be convinced, that far from being hated, you are loved as few can hope to be.”