"Philip, how frail he is!" she says, almost in a whisper, as the chair goes creaking beneath the window. "Yet what a hold he has on life! And it is _I_ give him that hold,--_I_ am the rope to which he clings. At night, when sleep is on him and lethargy succeeds to sleep, mine is the duty to rouse him and minister such medicines as charm him back to life. Should I chance to forget, his dreams might end in death. Last night, as I sat by his bedside, I thought, were I to forget,--what then?" "Ay, what then? Of what are you thinking?" cries her companion, in a tone of suppressed horror, resisting by a passionate movement the spell she had almost cast upon him by the power of her low voice and deep, dark eyes. "Would you kill the old man?" "Nay, it is but to forget," replies she, dreamily, her whole mind absorbed in her subject, unconscious of the effect she is producing. She has not turned her eyes upon him (else surely the terrible fear and shrinking in his must have warned her to go no further), but has her gaze fixed rather on the hills and woods and goodly plains for which she is not only willing but eager to sell all that is best of her. "To remain passive, and then"--straightening her hand in the direction of the glorious view that spreads itself before them--"all this would be ours." "Murderess!" cries the young man, in a low, concentrated tone, his voice vibrating with disgust and loathing as he falls back from her a step or two. The word thrills her. With a start she brings herself back to the present moment, turns to look at him, and, looking slowly, learns the truth. The final crash has come, her fears are realized; she has lost him forever. "What is it, Philip? what word have you used?" she asks, with nervous vehemence, as though only half comprehending; "why do you look at me so strangely? I have said nothing,--nothing that should make you shrink from me." "You have said enough,"--with a shiver, "too much; and your face said more. I desire you never to speak to me on the subject again." "What! you will not even hear me?" "No; I am only thankful I have found you out in time." "Say rather for this lucky chance I have afforded you of breaking off a detested engagement," cries she, with sudden bitterness. "Hypocrite! how long have you been awaiting it?" "You are talking folly, Marcia. What reason have I ever given you that you should make me such a speech? But for what has just now happened,--but for your insinuations----" "Ay,"--slowly,--"you shrink from hearing your thoughts put into words." "Not _my_ thoughts," protests he, vehemently. "No?" searchingly, drawing a step nearer him. "Are you _sure_? Have you never wished our grandfather dead?" "I may have wished it," confesses he, reluctantly, as though compelled to frankness, "but to compass my wish--to----"