hear she was dead--oh! what was this but murder--murder never coming to any execution, but involved in every thought? But afterwards there came upon this unhappy man something more dreadful still, the moment in which a new thought sprang up in him--the thought that it was never to be over, that she was not going to die, that the flicker in the socket of which the doctor had spoken was the filling in of oil to the flame, the rising of new force and life. When this thought came to him, what with the horror of the possibility, and the horror of knowing that he grudged that possibility, and would take life from her if he could, Oliver’s cup seemed full, despair took possession of him. Everything grew dark in heaven and earth. She was going to live, not to die; and what, oh! what, most miserable of men, was he to do? The first thing that enlightened him was a change in her phrases when she talked to him of her own devotion, of her longings after him. ‘I knew as it would give me a chance for my life if I could see you once again.’ It had been at first only to die in peace after she had seen him that she proposed. And when his eyes, quickened with this horrible light, began to observe closely, he perceived that she spoke more strongly, that her emaciation was not so great nor her breathing so difficult. She was going to live, not die; and what was to become of him? What was he to do? All this time--and it went on, gliding day after day, and week after week, he scarcely could tell how--he was receiving letters and calls back, and anxious inquiries and appeals from those he had left behind. Grace wrote to him--first a letter of simple love and anxiety, hoping his friend was better, anticipating news from him; then more serious, fearing that the illness was grave indeed, that he was absorbed in nursing, but begging for a word; then anxious, alarmed lest something should have happened to him; then with an outburst of feeling, entreating to know what it meant, imploring him only to tell her there was a reason, even if he could not say what that reason was. Then silence. But even this lasted but for a few days. She wrote again to say that she could not believe he had changed, that it was to her incredible; but should it be so, imploring to know from himself that so it was. The dignity and the tenderness, and the high trust and honour which would not permit any pettiness of offence, went to his very heart. He sent her a few miserable lines in reply, imploring her to wait. ‘Some of my sins have found me out,’ he said; ‘the sins I acknowledged to you. But oh! for the love of God, do not abandon me, for then I shall lose my last hope.’ He got from her in return these words, and no more, ‘I will never abandon you unless I have it from your own hand that I must.’ And then no other word.