Upon hearing of his grief and illness, Ada, conscious of her love only, and casting aside all the fetters that bound her, had left her husband's house and came to the palace of her uncle, with whom she was a great favorite. With glowing words she told him that she would never return to the house of her husband, who had long tormented her with his fierce jealousy, because he well knew that his wife did not love him, but loved the friend of his relative, young Mohammed Ali. In the strength and ardor of her love, she had not cared to deny that this was so, and firmly declared that she would be his alone; and therefore had she come up to the palace to nurse and wait on him she loved, in his illness and distress. The tschorbadji did not oppose her wishes, and the poor, delicate youth Osman was well pleased to have Ada's assistance in nursing his friend. She had been at his bedside constantly, and listened eagerly to the words that fell from his lips in the delirium of his fever. Ada would lie on her knees beside him, absorbed in those mysterious outpourings of the human heart; listening to his descriptions of the object of his great love, of his Masa, of her fate, and hear his oaths of vengeance. After the days of fever, and of the outpourings of anguish, came the days of exhaustion and of returning consciousness. The struggle between life and death lasted long, but life was at last victorious. Mohammed now felt his weakness, and he lay, as in the beginning of his illness, for many a day, motionless, on his bed, with widely- opened eyes, staring around him. But he now saw, and was conscious of what he saw. He saw his friend Osman, who followed his every movement with tender glances, and whose countenance shone with delight when Mohammed smiled on him, and told him with a look that he recognized him, and knew of his love. He saw, too, the veiled woman, who flitted about him, reading his every wish in his face, and fulfilling it before he expressed it. It touched his heart to perceive that there was still a woman who cared for him, and was anxious on his account. He had believed himself alone in the wide world, and there were now beside him two beings that shared his sorrow, and whose hearts beat warmly for him. This was written in their countenances; this their busy, anxious movements betrayed. When he was sufficiently recovered to be spoken to, Osman told him of Ada's love, of her grief on his account, of her joy in being permitted to nurse him, and of her having separated herself from the past, forsaking all else to serve him and him alone. He made no reply, but closed his eyes, and a low groan escaped his lips. Poor Ada! The story of her love reminds him of his own, and for a moment the old wound bleeds afresh.