“I do not consider it altogether a bad sign,” he said, cheeringly; “that low state of the nerves is a very common symptom of convalescence.” To rouse and divert her invalid niece Mrs. Colton strove with conscientious and untiring efforts; but failed utterly. From the hour of Laurence Desmond’s departure Emily drooped. A depression came upon her too profound for human consolation. In devout studies, in pious meditations alone she found comfort. Her aunt read to her from the works of the great divines, and in the eloquent and noble pages of Hooker and Taylor, Barrow and South, as well as in the Gospel’s simpler record, the weak soul found comfort. But with earthly comfort she had done. A stranger, alone in a strange land, she waited the coming of that awful stranger whom all must meet once--he who “keeps the key of all the creeds.” Utter desolation of spirit took possession of her. She was thrown back upon the spiritual world, and was fain to seek a dwelling-place among those shadowy regions, like a shipwrecked mariner cast upon a desert island, and rejoiced to find any refuge from the perils of the great ocean. Letters came to the lonely invalid, in token that she was not quite forgotten by the world she would fain forget; letters, and papers, and books from Mr. Desmond, who wrote with much affectionate solicitude; notes of condolence and inquiry from the few friends with whom she was on intimate terms. But these were only the last salutations which life sent to her who dwelt by the borders of death--the last farewells waved by friendly hands. “He is good and self-devoted to the last,” she thought, as she read Mr. Desmond’s letters; “and I do not think I should have induced him to leave me if he had not believed it would look better for me to be here alone with my aunt.” In this supposition Mrs. Jerningham was correct. Mr. Desmond was too much a man of the world not to be mindful of how things would appear to the eyes of the world, and it had seemed to him better that he should not prolong his stay at Madeira with the invalid. He had returned to London, therefore, and had gone back to his work, which seemed very weary at this period of his life. It was not possible that this utter severance should come to pass between him and Emily Jerningham without pain to himself. A man does not change all at once. However deeply he is bound to the new love, some frail links of the chain that tied him to the old hang about him still, some corner of his heart still holds the first dear image; and to the love that has been, the sorrow of parting lends a kind of sanctification. Before leaving England Mrs. Jerningham had taken pains to provide for Lucy’s future. The girl would gladly have accompanied her patroness to Madeira, but this Emily would not permit.