Fitzhenry was generally calm, and even cheerful; and he sometimes talked of what they would do on their return to Arlingford; and projected alterations and improvements in the place; but all such plans for the future, usually ended in a sigh, and were listened to in mournful silence by his wretched wife; and although he thus forced himself to appear interested in worldly affairs, yet, by the turn his conversation now commonly took, it was plain to perceive that the whole tone of his mind was completely changed; and when Emmeline proposed reading to him, he always selected such books as led to reflection, to God, and to a future world. Their wedding-day, the 19th of August, was the last on which he left the house; his exertions to appear cheerful on that day, had been so much beyond his strength, that they had exhausted him. The next, he could not leave his room. A fortnight more, and he could scarcely raise himself from his couch. The end of September came, and the preparations for their departure for Lisbon continued to be made, no one having the heart to countermand them, although it was very evident to all, that he would never quit his present home, but for that, where he would be for ever at rest. As his bodily strength failed, his mind seemed to gain fresh vigour, and to soar above the cares and sufferings of this transitory life. Resignation was an easier task to him, than to the wretched being who, strong in youth and health, was doomed to remain in that world from which she saw her every joy fast departing. But she never complained; she never wept; at least, her tears were ever concealed from him for whom they flowed. With a steady voice, she read to him of the peace, the bliss of heaven—of forgiveness to penitent sinners; and, when she saw her husband’s eyes raised to that heaven in humble submission to its decrees, she clasped her hands beside him in silence; and if a distinct prayer escaped from her meek heart, it was to implore that she might be released with him from this world of suffering.