"You are better now," said Ruth, as Mrs. Leon slowly opened her eyes, and looked about her; "you have had such a nice sleep, I think you will be able to join us at the tea table to-night. I will brush these long dishevelled locks, and robe these dainty limbs; though, to my eye, you look lovelier just as you are. You are very beautiful, Mary. I heard a couple of young ladies discussing you, in the drawing-room, the other evening, envying your beauty and your jewels, and the magnificence of your wardrobe." "Did they envy me my _husband_?" asked Mary, in a slow, measured tone. "That would have been useless," said Ruth, averting her eyes; "but they said he denied you nothing in the way of dress, equipage, or ornament." "Yes," said Mary; "I have all those pretty toys to satisfy my heart-cravings; they, equally with myself, are necessary appendages to Mr. Leon's establishment. Oh, Ruth!" and the tears streamed through her jewelled fingers--"love me--pity me; you who are so blessed. I too _could_ love; that is the drop of poison in my cup. When _your_ daughters stand at the altar, Ruth, never compel them to say words to which the heart yields no response. The chain is none the less galling, because its links are golden. God bless you, Ruth; 'tis long since I have shed such tears. You have touched the rock; forget that the waters have gushed forth." CHAPTER XXVI. October had come! coy and chill in the morning, warm and winning at noon, veiling her coat of many colors in a fleecy mist at evening, yet lovely still in all her changeful moods. The gay butterflies of fashion had already spread their shrivelled wings for the warmer atmosphere of the city. Harry and Ruth still lingered;--there was beauty for them in the hill-side's rainbow dyes, in the crimson barberry clusters, drooping from the wayside hedges; in the wild grape-vine that threw off its frost-bitten leaves, to tempt the rustic's hand with its purple clusters; in the piles of apples, that lay gathered in parti-colored heaps beneath the orchard trees; in the yellow ears of Indian corn, that lay scattered on the seedy floor of the breezy barn; in the festoons of dried apples, and mammoth squashes, and pumpkins, that lay ripening round the thrifty farmers' doors; and in the circling leaves, that came eddying down in brilliant showers on the Indian summer's soft but treacherous breath. * * * * * "You are ill, Harry," said Ruth, laying her hand upon his forehead. "Slightly so," replied Harry languidly; "a pain in my head, and--" A strong ague chill prevented Harry from finishing the sentence. Ruth, who had never witnessed an attack of this kind, grew pale as his teeth chattered, and his powerful frame shook violently from head to foot. "Have you suffered much in this way?" asked the physician who was summoned.