He was carried to his room, and laid upon his bed in an unconscious state. Everybody seemed to feel, from the moment of his attack, that this time there was no hope of his recovery. The family physician had only left him and returned to the city a day or two previously. The evening boat would be at the landing just below in fifteen minutes; Philip ordered a trusty servant to proceed on board of her to New York, and bring back the medical attendant by the return boat in the morning. Meanwhile he did what little he could for the relief of the unconscious man, while Virginia, pale as her dress, the flowers in her bosom withering beneath the tears which fell upon them, sat by the bedside, holding the paralyzed hand which made no response to her clasp. Hours passed in this manner; toward morning, while both sat watching for some sign of returning sensibility to the deathly features, the sufferer's eyes unclosed and he looked about him with a wandering air-- "Where is Alice? Alice! Alice! why don't you come? I've forgiven you, quite, and I want you to come home." "He is thinking of my sister," whispered Virginia, looking with awe into the eyes which did not recognize her, and drawing her cousin nearer to her side. "Don't tell me she is dead--Alice, the pride of my house--not dead!" "Oh, it is terrible to see him in such a state. Philip, can't you do something to relieve him?" "Virginia, poor child! I'm afraid he is beyond mortal aid. Be brave, my dear girl, I will help you to bear it." Philip could not refuse, in that sad hour, his sympathy and tenderness to the frightened, sorrowful woman who had only him to cling to. Presently the wild look faded out of the sick man's eyes. "Virginia, is that you? My poor child, I am dying. Nothing can save me now. I leave you alone, no father, no mother, sister, or brother, or husband to care for you when I am gone. Philip, are you here? will you be all these to Virginia? Do not hesitate, do not let pride control you in this hour. I know that I rejected you once, when you asked to be my son; but I see my mistake now. You have been very kind and unselfish to me since I sent for you. You are a man of prudence and honor. I should die content, if I knew Virginia was your wife, if you had not a thousand dollars to call your own. Poor girl! she will have very little, after all my vain seeking of wealth for her. Gold is nothing--_happiness_ is all. Virginia, take warning by me. I am a witness of the hollowness of pride. I have been a sad and discontented man for years. The memory of my cruelty to my Alice has stood like a specter between me and joy. Choose love--marry for love. Philip is more than worthy of you; try to make him happy. My boy, you do not speak. Take her hand, here, and promise me that you will take good care of my last and only child."