When, however, that autumn came, she had really to sit by his sick bed, to smooth his pillow, to watch his waning strength, and at length to hear him, in distinct audible words, speak of their approaching separation. She had never, even in her imagination, admitted such an idea, far less ever embodied it in actual language. When first he spoke she tried to smile,—a faint incredulous smile. But no! She looked on his haggard cheek, and the appalling truth was there too visibly written. She sat motionless, speechless. Nor did tears come to her relief till he alluded to the prospect of her becoming a mother—then the floodgates were opened—she sobbed convulsively, she covered his emaciated hand with kisses—she hid her head. From that moment she never left his room; she scarcely ever took her eyes off him. She would not allow any of her family to be summoned; for she seemed to dread the participation of another in her attendance; she would have been jealous of his receiving attention or service from any hand but her own. She wished to catch every sound of his voice, to hoard up each word, each look, in her memory, as a treasure for after years. The moment came,—he died, and she survived. Three months afterwards she became the widowed mother of a boy. That moment of rapture, when a mother’s eyes are blessed with a sight of her first-born, was to her a moment of agony. Then her loss seemed to burst upon her with redoubled force. She thought of the happiness she had anticipated, of the tenderness with which her husband would have hailed the intelligence of her safety, of the pride with which he would have looked upon his boy; and she almost turned away in anguish. This was but a passing feeling. The next instant she clasped the infant to her bosom; she felt as if the beloved of her soul was not wholly torn from her: she had something still to live for, something to which her existence was necessary; and the whole affections of that loving and blighted heart were poured forth upon the unconscious infant. She recovered slowly, but she did recover. Time wore away. She was still young, and might have hoped for happiness in a second marriage—but her’s was no common love. It had taken root in early life,—it had been nurtured in sorrow, almost in hopelessness,—it had for many long years been her thought by day, her dream by night,—it was so interwoven with her existence, that it could not be destroyed but with herself. Devotion to her child, to _his_ child, alone afforded relief to her sorrow and her love. She remembered all the treasured words of him who was gone; she thought over all the plans they had together formed for her little Walter’s education, and she considered no sacrifice too great that might by possibility be conducive to his health or to his advantage. Alas! by so doing, perhaps, she only fostered feelings which, in after life, led to most unfortunate results.