“When Marguerite gets well we shall have her out among us again,” or other hopeful words to the same effect. But Marguerite was never again quite well. Brighter and brighter, month after month, burned in her sunken cheeks and mournful eyes the secret fire that was consuming her frame. CHAPTER VII. THE VISITOR. “Speak, speak, thou fearful guest!” --LONGFELLOW. “I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy blood!” --SHAKESPEARE. Spiritually speaking, there is no such thing as time or space, as measured by numbers. For often moments in our experience drag themselves painfully on into indefinitely protracted duration, and sometimes years pass in a dream, “as a tale that is told.” Life passed monotonously to all on Helmstedt’s Island; but most monotonously to her who might not leave its shores. Every one else among its inhabitants often varied the scene by going upon the mainland on either side of the bay. Mr. Helmstedt went off almost every morning, not infrequently remaining out all day to dine at Colonel Houston’s, Mr. Wellworth’s, or some other friend’s house. The domestic and out-servants relieved each other in turn, that they might go to church on Sundays or visit their friends on the shore. Only Marguerite never upon any account left the island. The Houstons and the Comptons would expostulate with her, and talk to Mr. Helmstedt, alike in vain. “Indeed I cannot leave the island, dear friends,” would Marguerite say, without assigning any reason why she would not. “Mrs. Helmstedt does not choose to leave home; it is her will to confine herself to the island, and her will is a very dominant one, as you know,” would be Mr. Helmstedt’s explanation. “I declare it is a monomania! Marguerite is a riddle. Here some years ago she used to run away from us all, and be absent six or seven months, without deigning to inform us either where or why she went; now she chooses to confine herself within the limits of her island home, without giving us any reason for the eccentricity. But I suppose, indeed, that it is all occasioned by the state of her nerves,” would be Nellie’s comment upon all this. Meanwhile Mrs. Helmstedt passed her time in superintending her house and servants, all of which was faultlessly managed; in rearing her child; and in attending, as only a devoted wife can attend, to the personal comforts of her husband during the day, and in entertaining him and any chance visitor with her harp or voice or varied conversation in the evening. Those days upon which Mr. Helmstedt was absent were the longest and heaviest of all to the recluse--but her greatest comforts were her child, her occupations and the contemplation of the glorious scenery around her.