“I dare not say there is _much_ hope in this instance. This atrophy is a very unfavorable thing—all our hope is in being able to save the digestive functions. I have left a prescription, with written directions, above stairs.” The doctor took his hat, and saying that he would see the invalid again in the afternoon, departed. “All alike! all alike! They sway from right to left, raising one’s hopes, and then rousing their fears! He lies! he lies! It is not so! she is in no danger! Great God she must not die! she shall not!” So unjustly, wildly, sinfully Frank Fairfax talked, walking distractedly up and down the floor, convulsed by grief, remorse and fear for her he loved so strongly, and felt he had wronged so greatly. He dared not seek her bedside now in his excited state—he rushed into his library, locked the door, and gave himself up to all the power of remorse. In the afternoon he sought the sick room again. And the deep, sweet peace that pervaded the apartment fell like a soothing spell upon his excited nerves. The front windows were open, for the day was very fine, and the fresh air and the sunshine came in together, with the cheerful view of the expanse of water, and the wooded hills across James River. The coolness of the air was sufficiently tempered by a glowing coal fire in the grate. Zuleime lay raised up with pillows on the bed, and upon the counterpane by her sat her little girl. The face of the youthful mother seemed as soft, as feeble, and as free of care and sorrow as that of the infant herself. On seeing Frank enter, she smiled a gentle, pleased, childish smile, and feebly moved her hand towards him. He went to her, at first successfully repressing all his strong emotions, and kissed her very gently, but then sank upon his knees, and dropping his face upon her hand, burst into tears, and wept passionately. Her other hand wandered playfully through his curls, and she said, gently— “Don’t weep, Frank, please don’t—indeed I am happy—it is so nice to be here—don’t weep.”