and kiss his most withered and undainty cheek, he turned quickly round, and almost fell against me in the abstracted hurry of his exit. “Hush!” said I, softly. “What hope of your patient?” The leech glanced at me meaningly, and I whispered to him to wait for me below. Isora had not yet seen me. It is a notable distinction in the feelings, that all but the solitary one of grief sharpen into exquisite edge the keenness of the senses, but grief blunts them to a most dull obtuseness. I hesitated now to come forward; and so I stood, hat in hand, by the door, and not knowing that the tears streamed down my cheeks as I fixed my gaze upon Isora. She too stood still, just where the leech had left her, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her head drooping. The right hand, which the man had pressed, had sunk slowly and heavily by her side, with the small snowy fingers half closed over the palm. There is no describing the despondency which the listless position of that hand spoke, and the left hand lay with a like indolence of sorrow on the table, with one finger outstretched and pointing towards the phials, just as it bad, some moments before, seconded the injunctions of the prim physician. Well, for my part, if I were a painter I would come now and then to a sick chamber for a study. At last Isora, with a very quiet gesture of self-recovery, moved towards the bed, and the next moment I was by her side. If my life depended on it, I could not write one, no, not _one_ syllable more of this scene. CHAPTER XI. CONTAINING MORE THAN ANY OTHER CHAPTER IN THE SECOND BOOK OF THIS HISTORY. MY first proposal was to remove the patient, with all due care and gentleness, to a better lodging, and a district more convenient for the visits of the most eminent physicians. When I expressed this wish to Isora, she looked at me long and wistfully, and then burst into tears. “_You_ will not deceive us,” said she, “and I accept your kindness at once,--from _him_ I rejected the same offer.” “Him?--of whom speak you?--this Barnard, or rather--but I know him!” A startling expression passed over Isora’s speaking face. “Know him!” she cried, interrupting me, “you do not,--you cannot!” “Take courage, dearest Isora,--if I may so dare to call you,--take courage: it is fearful to have a rival in that quarter; but I am prepared for it. This Barnard, tell me again, do you love him?” “Love--O God, no!” “What then? do you still fear him?--fear him, too, protected by the unsleeping eye and the vigilant hand of a love like mine?” “Yes!” she said falteringly, “I fear for _you_!” “Me!” I cried, laughing scornfully, “me! nay, dearest, there breathes not that man whom you need fear on _my_ account. But, answer me; is not--” “For Heaven’s sake, for mercy’s sake!” cried Isora, eagerly, “do not question me; I may not tell you who, or what this man is; I am bound, by a most solemn oath, never to divulge that secret.”