"You would not fret your dear heart with harrowing doubts of my love for you and Poplar-grove, if you could peep in upon me this morning," wrote Ida. "Mr. Read is worse. I am unfamiliar with the diagnosis of this malady; but I fear his condition is very precarious. He is entirely disabled; cannot lift his hand to his mouth without extreme pain, and his nervous system is much deranged. I write now at the window farthest distant from his bed, and cautiously, that the scratching of my pen may not disturb him. I can see your hands and eyes go up, and hear the 'this is too much!' which signals the last throe of expiring patience as you picture me a nun-like figure, with serge gown and close cap; or more affecting, an attenuated damsel, such as we see upon tomb-stones, pressing a handkerchief to one eye; I imagine your multitudinous arguments, each unanswerable in its excellence, and which I know by heart. You allege that he is not entitled to my cares, inasmuch as there are no ties of blood between us; that he has never done me an ungrudged favor; that he is greedy and thankless for my services; that his wife and daughter should esteem it their duty and pleasure to tend him; and fifthly and lastly, that it is wrong to endanger my health, as your whimsical country doctors will have it I am doing. Putting the last first,--reassure yourself my dear--I am _well_. I do not prevaricate to allay your fears; I look well, eat well, and sleep well, and I may dismiss the remainder of your objections in one sentence--I am doing my duty, Carry! I am morally certain of this, more certain, than if you were my charge; for my love would be the mainspring of action then. I am upheld by the assurance, that I am fulfilling, in my humble way, the command, our Saviour appointed as the touchstone of piety to the end of time--'Do good to them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use you.' I thank Him that He has vouchsafed to me this opportunity to examine myself by this criterion." The sufferer moaned, and she laid down her pen. "You have had a refreshing sleep, have you not, sir?" "No! there is no ease for me. Why is that window open? It does seem that you all have conspired that I shall die, whether or no. Where is Helen?" "She was here awhile ago, and will be in again soon." "Is she in the house?" "I do not know, sir. Let me get what you want." "I want _her_!" She was not at home, and Ida renewed her offer. "Gone out, hey!" he rambled on, peevishly. "How she walks! as if the ground were not good enough for her feet! ogling and coquetting! and I am _here_!" with an oath. "Where is Josephine?" "Down stairs, sir." "What is _she_ about?" "Anna Talbot is with her." "More folly and vanity! ringlets and ribbons, and bonnets and beaux! The world is peopled with knaves and fools--women are knaves--men fools. You are a mixture." Ida suppressed a smile. "Your lips are dry," she said "here is water."