“Yes, I know, down to the bottom of my soul, what the misery was, and how many, many excuses there are for you. But the children do not know this, and there is no making them understand, and I must think of them first. If it was only myself, I think I could sit up with you all night, and shield you all day, and even indulge you with the very thing itself, when I saw you sinking for want of it. But, as it is, whatever I may do when the children are out of the way, I will do as I said when they are by.” “Do. I was not going to excuse myself when you stopped me just now,—but only to say you do not know how glad I should be to stop, if I could, though I shall never recover my head again now. It will go on roaring like the sea as long as ever I live.” “No, no. With good food, you know——” “I shall never relish food more; but I will try; and do you do as you said. I am not sure how I shall mind it in such a case; I never can tell any thing beforehand now. But you know your part; and if I fall back, you must all mind me as little as you can.” “Only, don’t think me less tender to you, Margaret.” “No; O, no; you have given me warning, you know.” “Your poor head! how it beats! You had better let me carry you to bed; you are not fit to sit up. Better let me lay you on the bed.” “Well, I can’t go walking. This is the sinking,—now.” “And enough there has been to sink you. There! I’ll stay beside you. Where’s your apron to hang up before your eyes? Now, don’t think of any thing but sleep.” “O, but then I dream.” “Well! I shall be here to wake you, in case of your starting. Only just give me the key of the cupboard, and do not ask Mary for it any more when I am away.” CHAPTER VI. TOO LATE.