He was very pale, and the arm on which my hand was resting, trembled violently, but grew still when he heard my answer, which was, “I _did_ love you, but ’twas a childish love and quickly passed away. And were you now free as you once were, I could be to you nothing save a friend.” There was a mixture of disappointment and pleasure on his face; but he replied, “I am glad that it is so, and shall now feel happier, for the hardest part of all was the thought that possibly _you, too_, might suffer.” “Not at all,” I answered, adding, “it would be foolish to break my heart for one man, when there are so many in the world.” This I said with bitterness, for I remembered the time when I had wept in the shadowy woods of Meadow Brook, and if for a moment I experienced a feeling of satisfaction in knowing that what _I_ suffered then, _he_ was suffering now, I can only plead _woman’s nature_ as an apology. ’Twas but for a moment, however, and then, casting off all such feelings, I spoke to him kindly of his wife, telling him he could be happy with her if he tried, and that if he were not, it was probably as much his fault as hers. Brighter days, too, would come, I said, when his practice would not be limited to _three_ patients, one of whom was too poor to pay, and another was already convalescent, while the third was in the last stages of her disease, and would need his services but a few days longer. “You are my good angel, Rose,” said he, when at last we reached my uncle’s door, “and your words inspire me with courage. Come and see us often, for the sight of you does me good, and God knows how much I stand in need of sympathy. Farewell.” He pressed my hand, and hastily raising it to his lips, turned away, dreading, as I well knew, a return to the sick-room, where naught would greet him save reproachful complaints, and where the dark eyes, which had first won his admiration, would flash angrily upon him. In the hall, I stood for a time, pondering in my mind some way by which I could assist him, and I even thought of feigning sickness myself for the sake of adding another patient to his list! But this, I knew, he would easily detect, and possibly he might misconstrue my motive for so doing, and this project was abandoned, and I entered the parlor in quest of my aunt, who, I learned from one of the servants, was in her own room, suffering from a severe headache. She had taken a violent cold, which, by the next morning, had developed itself into a species of influenza, at that time prevailing in the city. Added to this was a general debility and prostration of the nerves, brought on by her recent trouble and anxiety concerning Herbert.