"'What did she say?--what did she do?' "'She didn't say much,--"Oh, my God! my God!"--something like that. The next morning she showed me a letter which she had written to Margaret.' "'To Margaret?' I started up, but fell back again, helpless, with a groan. "'Yes,' said Joseph,--'and it was a letter worthy of the noblest woman. I wrote another, for I thought Margaret ought to know everything. It might save her life, and yours, too. In the mean time, I had got worse news from her still,--that her health continued to decline, and that her physician saw no hope for her except in a voyage to Italy. But that she resolutely refused to undertake, until she got those letters. You know the rest.' "'The rest?' I said, as a horrible suspicion flashed upon me. 'You told me something terrible had happened.' "'Yes,--to Flora. But you have heard the worst. She is gone; she is by this time in Rome.' "'Flora gone? But you said she was here.' "'_She?_ So _she_ is! But did you think I meant Flora? I supposed you knew. Not Flora,--but Margaret! Margaret!' "I shrieked out, 'Margaret?' That's the last I remember,--at least, the last I can tell. She was there,--I was in her arms;--she had crossed the sea, not to save her own life, but mine. And Flora had gone, and my dreams were true; and the breath and magnetic touch of love, which infused warm, sweet life into me, and seemed not Flora's, but Margaret's, were no illusion, and----what more can I tell? "From the moment of receiving those letters, Margaret's energies were roused, and she had begun to regain her health. There is no such potent medicine as hope and love. It had saved her, and it saved me. My recovery was sure and speedy. The happiness which had seemed too great, too dear to be ever possible, was now mine. She was with me again, all my own! Only the convalescent, who feels the glow of love quicken the pure pulses of returning health, knows what perfect bliss is.