Mr Merton's anguish during those long days and nights while Wilfred lay at death's door was terrible to behold. Alienated as had been his affection for his son while absent, the feelings of parental love returned tenfold, now that he might be on the point of losing that son for ever; and as he nursed his boy with that womanly gentleness which is so touching in a man, it was evident that his whole hope of happiness was bound up in his recovery. Mr Colherne had, as Mabel predicted, lost no time in following her to Paris, and though he could hardly feel the intense and painful interest in the invalid that his father felt, still for Mabel's sake he became a willing sharer in the nursing. As for Mabel, hope was very strong in her, and made that time of watching much easier to bear. She could not help believing that that strong determination to cross the Channel had been put into her mind to enable her to save the one who was so dear to her; and in that belief she put her trust. At last, after long, weary, sometimes almost despairing watching, the patient took a favourable turn. The burning fever ceased; and one day the doctor told the anxious watchers that there was great hope; that indeed, unless any unforeseen complications arose, there was nothing further to fear. Then the pent-up feelings of Mr Merton--that grief which he had tried so unsuccessfully to conceal from his companions, could be kept in no longer; he threw his arms round Mabel's neck, buried his face on her shoulder, and burst into tears, those tears which, when shed by a man, are so inexpressibly painful to see. 'Mabel,' he said, 'I owe all this to you; if it had not been for you, I should have been my son's murderer.' Mabel pressed her lips upon his forehead in silence; her heart was too full of thankfulness for speech. Wilfred was very patient, and manfully bore all the trials of the time. As soon as he was well enough to be able to think of what he had done, a feeling of intense remorse had come over him, and had taken such powerful hold that at first it threatened to throw him back. But the gentle hand of Mabel was a wonderful restorer; a word or two of loving assurance changed this bitter remorse into a quiet sorrow. It happened one day, about a week after this, that while Mabel was reading at the window of the invalid's room, she heard Wilfred's voice gently calling to her. It was as if the voice of her lover had been suddenly restored to him. 'Can you forgive me, my darling?' he asked. 'Am I not a woman, Wilfred? And is it not a woman's privilege to forgive?' 'I don't think you are a woman, Mabel; I think you are an angel.' Few words, but conveying volumes.