During the whole of the rest of the day, Helen seldom, if ever, quitted the bed-side of the Commander de Liancourt. Though careless of life, inured by long habit to suffering, and even somewhat impatient of anything that seemed like forced attention to his state, the old warrior was not at all insensible to real kindness. He saw that she sympathised with him, that she really felt for all he endured, that she did her best to soothe and to allay, to comfort and support him. He could not but see it; for though, ever and anon, the shadow of her own fate would fall upon her again, and she would sit, for a moment or two, in gloom and darkness, yet at his lightest word, at his least movement, she was up and by his bed-side. The cup was always ready for his lips, the pillow was constantly smoothed for his head, his wishes seemed anticipated, his very thoughts answered, and even the burning impatience of growing fever could not run before her promptitude. When he obtained a moment of repose, she was calm and silent. When he wished to speak, she was ready to answer, in sweet and quiet tones that sounded pleasant to his ear; when his breathing became oppressed, she was there to raise his head upon her soft arm, to open the window for the air of spring to enter, and to bathe his fiery brow. To another young and inexperienced being, the scene might have been terrible, the task hard; but to her, it was all a relief. A share in any sorrow, was lighter than the full burden of her own; and aught that took her thoughts from herself, delivered her from a portion of her anguish. More than once, the old man gazed upon her fixedly for two or three minutes, as if there was something that he wished to say, and yet did not; more than once, he sent away his followers, who came and went during the afternoon between his room and the next, as if he were about to speak of something that lay at his heart; but still he refrained, till, just as the light was beginning to fade, he turned painfully in the bed, and murmured, "Helen." The poor girl was by his side in a moment; and putting forth his now burning hand, he took hers, continuing, "Helen, I wish to talk to you about yourself before I go." Helen trembled like an aspen leaf. Four-and-twenty hours before, in the first agony of desolation and despair, she would have poured forth her whole soul to any one who offered her a word of kindness and sympathy; but a change had come over her since then; the power of thought had returned, conscience and shame and remorse had made themselves heard, over even the tumultuous voices of grief and indignation and hopeless agony. The still, but all-pervading words of self-reproach, filled her ear continually; and, in the blank wilderness of existence, she saw but her own folly. She shrank then, and trembled when he spoke of herself. There was no name but one that he could have pronounced, which would have sounded more horrible to her ears than her own.