Upon the table, in the recess of the low projecting window, lay an old Latin book--others of a like nature were scattered round. Anne was sufficiently acquainted with old literature to see that some of these were rare and strange. A small pile, which she could fancy the daily and beloved companions of their owner, lay at one side. The upper one of the pile, was the "Imitatione Christi," of Thomas a Kempis, in the original Latin--the others were of the same contemplative cast. Old emblematic poems, full of devout conceits: old dialectic philosophy, subtle and shifting--a strange atmosphere for that fragile mind, with its sensitive beauty and feebleness, to breathe and dwell in. She was thinking of him--with her hands clasped over her eyes, and her head bowed down, she was trying to think what she could do--"looking forward as the aim and expectation of your life--almost, God help us--as your hope--for a thing which you knew would rend your heart, and make your life a desert when it came." The words returned before her constantly, blinding her mind and stilling it. She could do nothing. A hand was laid upon her shoulder. She looked up hastily--it was Christian Lillie. Her eyes were fixed upon Anne with a look of wistful inquiry: her tall figure was slightly bent. Anne saw more clearly than she had ever done before, how attenuated and worn out she was. Yet, in the melancholy face and shadowy frame, there was no trace of greater weariness than usual. She had been watching by a sick-bed all the night--and such a sick-bed!--but she thought of no rest, she evidenced no fatigue. You could fancy the soul within, so constantly awake and watching, that its thin robe of earthly covering needed not the common sustenance of feeble humanity. "What do you here?" said Christian Lillie, "this is no air for you to breathe--no roof to cover you. Let us bear our own burden as we best can; you must not try to render help to us--no, nor even sympathy--you must go from this fated house." Anne took into her own the thin hand which rested on her shoulder. "You must let me stay," she said eagerly. "I can take no dismissal--you must let me stay--no one else in this wide world could be beside you as I can be--save one. I must remain with you; I must share your labors--you cannot watch continually." "Watch!" said Christian, "I _have_ watched continually, without ceasing night or day. You can rest who are young--you who have known no deadly evil--what rest is there for me? Leave me to my own weird. God knows, who sent it, that He has sent patience also to bear its bitterness. It was long before that came, but I watched, and waited, and prayed for it dry-eyed: tears are not for me, unless it be the terrible ones that the heart weeps when it is wrung. You must go from this place; let us not throw the shadow of our desolation over another of your blood. You must go before you are blighted."