"I could not come before, as I told you. But now that you have me, will you brighten up? I do not like your worn air. Those white cheeks do not become you." "You will give me health, Arthur." "If God permits me!" I said fervently, pained by the great pathos of her eyes and the troubled frightened expression of her face. "I have brought a friend with me, Geraldine. Perhaps he will help me to make you well." "What friend?" "Did not I tell you of my intention to bring a friend from London?" "Did you?" she asked, with a bewildered look. Then feeling in her pocket she produced my letter. "How often have I kissed it!" she said, as though to herself; "but I do not want it, now that I have him with me." "There," said I, opening the letter and pointing to the passage in it: "do you not remember reading those lines?" She knitted her brow like one in deep reflection; and looking up, with her face softened with rather the shadow of a smile than a smile, answered, "Yes--I ran with it to Mrs. Williams and told her to get the spare room ready." Just then the door opened and a servant ushered in Dr. F----. I rose and introduced him to Geraldine. He bowed with polite reserve. She inclined her head and sat watching him as a child might. He appeared to take no notice of her. He began a light conversation with me, wandering from topic to topic, evidently with the design of engaging her attention and inducing her to speak. Now and then I caught him looking at her. She rose after a little, as if his presence made her uneasy, and went to the window; but soon returned and resumed her seat by my side. All at once she asked: "Are you an old friend of my husband?" "We have known each other some time." "How came you to meet?" "We met at the house of a common friend." "Were you _very_ pleased to see him?" He answered with a smile, "It is always pleasing to meet with one's friends." "Arthur," she said, turning to me, "it is not fair in you to call anyone 'friend' but me. 'Acquaintance' is what you should call everybody but Geraldine." "I call you my wife, dearest; and that is a higher name than all." "Mr. Fenton," she said, addressing him by the name I had introduced him by, "do you think Arthur has any friend who would mourn if he left him for only a day?" "He is fortunate if he has, Mrs. Thorburn." "I did, Mr. Fenton. And has he a friend who, if he were lying ill, would wish to be ill too? who, if he were dying would wish to be dying? who, if he were dead, would kill himself, if he could not die for grief, that he might be by his side in the grave?" Her eyes sparkled, her nostrils dilated; she added proudly: "He has only one friend who would wish all this for his dear sake, and she is his wife." "I am sure he is very sensible of your devotion," he answered, gravely.