In less than two months, she was attacked by fever and inflammation of the brain, such as had before seized her on the death of her husband. She had, however, lucid intervals; and though my mother and myself felt our hearts wrung by her delirious ravings--during which she called upon her son's name in the most affecting language--still we suffered more, when, on recovering her senses, she asked for this darling son, and we were obliged to reply that he was not yet arrived. And where--oh! where was he, at a moment like that? We knew not. As soon as Lady Helen's attack was judged to be a dangerous one, my mother wrote to him at Oxford, desiring him to set off immediately, or he might come too late; and as Oxford was only a ten hours' journey from home, he might have been with us the next morning, had he been at college. It was also term time; but yet he came _not_, though on such an occasion, leave of absence was easily to be obtained. My mother was too angry to be as wretched as I was at this distressing circumstance--for indignation often swallows up every other feeling, and once she hinted to me that he must have received the letter, and that mere idle neglect kept him away; but the poor invalid, who, unsuspected by us, overheard our conversation, exclaimed-- "No, Julia; whatever are his other faults, my poor boy loves me--tenderly loves me; and even from a sick-bed he would hasten to his dying mother. Oh no! he has never received your letter--he is not in college." "Then where is he? In college he ought to be." "True, Julia; but he is young and thoughtless, and we ought to remember that we were so _once ourselves_. We ought not to have run away from our parents--yet we _did_ so, Julia." "We did, indeed," cried my mother, abashed and silenced. "Yes," continued Lady Helen; "and therefore I have always endeavoured to be mild in my judgment of other people--especially of the young." "Helen," cried my mother, "forgive me, thou blessed spirit! I will be merciful to him, even though it makes me unjust to----" "No, your first duty is to your daughter: but listen to me, Julia! Be _sure_ to convince Seymour, when I am no more, that I did not impute his absence to want of love, but merely to _accident_. Be _sure_ you do; for he will feel only too much, when he comes and finds that he has no longer a mother!" The afflicting image thus presented to my mind, of what would be Seymour's misery if he indeed arrived too late, was more than I could bear, and I was forced to leave the room. Soon afterwards, Lady Helen's senses wandered again; but when I returned, she was sensible, though exhausted; and as I entered, she hastily put back the curtain, and said--