"I cannot tell whether Sir Boyvill is aware of his situation--he is too much oppressed by illness for conversation; the sole desire he testifies is to have me near him. Once or twice he has pressed my hand, and looked on me with affection. I never remember to have received before such testimonials of paternal love. Such is the force of the natural tie between us, that I am deeply moved, and would not leave him for the whole world. My poor father!--he has no friend, no relative but me; and now, after so much haughtiness and disdain, he, in his need, is like a little child, reduced to feel his only support in natural affections. His unwonted gentleness subdues my soul. Oh, who would rule by power, when so much more absolute a tyranny is established through love! "Sophia is very kind--but she is not his child. The hour approaches when we should be at Carlisle. What will be the result of our absence--what the event of this illness? I am perplexed and agitated beyond measure; in a day or two all will be decided: if Sir Boyvill becomes convalescent, still it may be long before he can undertake so distant a journey. "Do not fear that for a moment I shall neglect your interests; they are my own. For months I have lived only on the expectation of the hour when you should be liberated from the horrors of your present position; and the anticipation of another delay is torture. Even your courage must sink, your patience have an end. Yet a little longer, my Elizabeth, support yourself, let not your noble heart fail at this last hour, this last attack of adversity. Be all that you have ever been, firm, resigned, and generous; in your excellence I place all my trust. I will write again very speedily, and if you can imagine any service that I can do you, command me to the utmost. I write by my father's bedside; he does not sleep, but he is still. Farewell--I love you; in those words is summed a life of weal or wo for me and for you also, my Elizabeth! Do not call me selfish for feeling thus--even here." "Yes, yes," thought Elizabeth; "busy fingers are weaving--the web of destiny is unrolling fast--we may not think, nor hope, nor scarcely breathe--we must await the hour--death is doing his work--what victim will he select?" The intelligence in this letter, communicated on the morrow to all concerned in the coming trial, filled each with anxiety. In a very few days the assizes would commence; Falkner's name stood first on the list--delay was bitter, yet he must prepare for delay, and arm himself anew with resolution. Several anxious days passed--Elizabeth received no other letter--she felt that Sir Boyvill's danger was protracted, that Gerard was still in uncertainty--the post hour now became a moment of hope and dread--it was a sort of harassing inquietude hard to endure; at length a few lines from Lady Cecil arrived--they brought no comfort--all remained in the same state.