“Thou Edith! thou spirit--thou angel! comest thou to torment me before my time? Ah! have mercy, God, have mercy! hast Thou sent _her_ to see me die!” Edith paused in fear at this address, but recollecting herself, she threw a handful of perfumes into the fire, which burned faintly upon the hearth, and advanced to the bedside to see if any thing could be done. In the simpler remedies for the pestilence she had become skilled. But the patient shrank still further back, and gazing at her with wild terrified eyes, extended her hand to keep her away. “Come not near me--what have I to do with thee, thou dead! Ah! wilt thou press upon me--wilt thou stifle me--thou--thou--Edith, I did not slay thee!” “Lady,” said her wondering visitor, “I do but seek to help if I can do aught--I have with me what may do you service. Have you been long stricken?” “Keep back,” cried the lady, in wild fear, rising almost entirely from the bed, while on her breast Edith saw the fatalest tokens of the plague--the deadly marks which precluded all hope. “Keep back, I say--leave me, thou spirit--why would’st thou tarry out of thy heaven. Ah! thou cruel Almighty One, who hast sent her to see mine agony, carry her hence--I will bear thy fires--thy torments--but not this--not this!” Edith fell back before the extremity of terror shining in the stricken woman’s face. “Leave me,” she repeated, hoarsely, crouching close by the wall. “Edith, thou wert gentle once, and I entreat thee. I have defied this plague--I do defy yonder tortures--but thou--thou! wilt thou not leave me!” “Have patience with me, lady!” said Edith, “I do but seek to serve you if I may--I am no spirit--I am Edith Field, a poor maiden--if you will but let me help you.” “And thou darest say so to my face,” said the unhappy patient, wildly. “Thou darest to call thee by yonder clown’s name; thou who wert once a Dacre! Would’st thou kill me? dost thou come hither in my last hours to rejoice over mine agony? Avoid thee, avoid thee, thou cruel spirit! What have I to do with thee?” Edith retreated in terror. The lady pressed her hands over her eyes as if to shut out the unwelcome sight. “Is she gone?” she muttered, “is she gone? Ah! this torment--ah! this agony--to die, and none but her beholding me--is she gone?” She removed her hands and looked fearfully round. Edith stood pale and trembling at the door. “Wilt thou not go?” exclaimed the lady, “wilt thou remain, thou spirit? I slew thee not--thou did’st not say to me thou had’st no shelter--thou said’st not thou wert homeless, thou false one, and who could tell me if thou did’st not? I tell thee, Edith--Edith, thou Puritan--thou pale-face--thou false Dacre, I tell thee, thou bearest witness to a lie, for I did not slay thee!” There was a pause--the sick woman fell back exhausted upon her bed, keeping her large, dilated, unnaturally bright eyes fixed upon Edith.