I was compelled to be. There were both balm and gall in the letter--balm because the tales that slanderous tongues were circulating were false, and gall because Jessie had written in such a manner as to give me but little hope that she reciprocated my love. If she loved me, she would have confided in me. Is it possible, I reflected with bitterness, that she could have led me on, knowing my feelings towards her, and making light of them? But the thought was transient; I would not entertain it. It would be a shame on my manhood to doubt her. What if she were not for me--would that prove her unworthy? But it was bitter to bear, and the scalding tears ran from my eyes as I laid my head on my mother's pillow. My sobs disturbed her, and she moved her fingers feebly towards my neck. It was the first sign of recognition she had displayed since her illness. I fondled her poor thin hand, and kissed it, and moved close to her lips, for she was murmuring faint words. But these words were addressed not to me, but to my father, who had been dead for so many years. She was speaking to him of their darling boy, and of the happiness he would be to them when he grew to be a man. I listened sadly; every soft word she murmured was a dagger in my heart, for I was beginning to learn the strength of her love and the weakness of mine. Heavy as was the blow which had fallen upon me, I felt that there might be comfort and peace even yet for me, if my mother lived to enjoy the outward evidences of my penitence and love, and that a curse indeed must fall upon my life if she died without blessing me. CHAPTER XLI. JOSEY WEST DECLARES THAT SHE HAS GOT INTO HER PROPER GROOVE. A week had passed, and there was still no change in my mother's condition. Every time the doctor visited her, his manner became more serious. The shadow of death seemed to hang already over the house. 'Her strength will not hold out for another week, I am afraid.' He spoke these words to Josey West, out of my hearing as he thought. I followed him from the house. 'I heard what you said to Miss West,' I said to him. 'Is all hope really gone? Can nothing be done?' He did not reply immediately, and before he spoke he took my arm kindly. 'This is one of the cases outside my experience. Your mother has nothing that a physician can grapple with. She has no organic disease that I can discover, and although physically she is fearfully weak, it is mental suffering that is killing her. It is not usual for a doctor to speak as plainly as I am speaking to you, but it is best to do so. I have heard so much that is good and noble in your mother's life, that it would rejoice me exceedingly to see her rise from her bed in health.' 'No one but I can know how tender and beautiful her life has been,' I said, with sobs. 'If I could give my life for hers, I would resign it with cheerfulness.'