But when men weep and sob, it is no passing shower, like the easily shed tears of women, but a great gust, shaking all the nature. So it was a long time before Frank mastered his emotion. When he recovered his composure, and arose and sat by her side and looked at her, he found that the hectic fever burned crimson on her cheeks, and that her brilliant eyes wandered about deliriously. And he knew that he had harmed her again. And soon she began to talk at random, babbling childishly, delightfully, about White Cliffs, and the forest walks, and the garden. And she addressed her father and sister, as if they were present. And very lovingly she spoke to Catherine; or, coming nearer to the present moment, talked with Ida about her feminine shrinking from appearing upon the stage. Frank listened in the deepest trouble, and in the wandering of her mind he learned much that had transpired at White Cliffs, a great deal that had occurred since her flight thence, and _all_ that he ought to have known. When the physician arrived in the evening, he instituted strict inquiries, and discovered the cause of her high fever. Then he rebuked the indiscretion of her friends, and leaving fresh prescriptions, with peremptory orders that the deepest quiet should be preserved, departed. Her fever unabated raged all night. In the morning it went off. Captain Fairfax would not permit himself to enter her room again until he had obtained the power of perfect self-control. At about eleven o’clock he went in. The crimson curtains of the windows were drawn aside, and the room was light and cheerful. The white muslin drapery of the bedstead was festooned, and revealed the fair invalid reclining there, wan, placid, child-like as ever. She welcomed her husband with the same soft, faint smile. And he went and sat by her side, and crushing down all strong emotions, took her hand, and spoke to her calmly and pleasantly, inquiring how she felt. “So well—it is so nice to be here,” she answered simply. And she lay there looking at him contentedly, smiling softly, answering vaguely when he spoke to her; but never asking any question; or making any comment; or volunteering any speech whatever. This pained him more than all—for he knew that mind as well as body was sinking—lapsing away into a sort of dreamy, happy fatuity. And all attempts to rouse her from that state only threw her into fever, and often into delirium. One day, with a view to interest without exciting her, he inquired— “Dearest, is there any one you would like to see?” “Yes—Ida,” she said. “And who is Ida, love?” asked Frank, very cautiously and gently, for he felt as if he were running the risk of hurting her again. “Ida! La! don’t you know? She was so good to me,” she replied, with a pitying smile.