By a natural reaction the madness of Withers now assumed another aspect. Late in the afternoon he returned and entered not _his own_, but Raymond’s chamber. Sophie was in their room, and heard him come slowly up the stairs, enter the adjoining chamber, and throw himself upon Raymond’s bed. She determined to go to him, though her every nerve from heart to extremities was trembling and quivering. She arose and entered the room; the white wrapper that she wore was not whiter than her cheek, as she sat down by the bedside, where his long thin figure, in its black suit, lay extended upon the white counterpane. But what a change had come over him! never even in his most rational moments had she seen him in such a mood; his manner was subdued, the expression of his countenance pensive, his tones gentle. No one that had seen him in his ordinary manner, hard, stern, harsh, and bitter, would have recognised him now—alas! this mood was as unnatural to him and as much a feature in his lunacy as was the other of the morning; it was but the reaction of his phrensy. He held his hand out to her, she took it and pressed it between her own. “I would not go into your room, Sophie, for fear of disturbing you, and you come to me. Alas! and you are so pale, you tremble so much, poor girl, I have nearly killed you, you will give me up now!” and an expression of anguish convulsed his countenance. “No, no, I will not; my paleness, trembling, swooning, is a matter of nerves, not of will; I cannot help it, but I will not upon that account leave you; my flesh shrinks, but my reason does not convince me of any personal risk.” “And there is none to _you_, none to _you_, Sophie, believe it: in my maddest moments I could not hurt _you_.” At this moment, Raymond, not knowing who was in the room, entered, started slightly on seeing his father on the bed with Sophie sitting by him, but quickly recovering himself, walked up to the bed, and inquired, as though nothing had happened, “How are you now, sir?” “Better, calmer, my boy—but oh! Raymond, my son, why had you not kept out of my way? You know, you _know_ the risk you run; think if in my phrensy I were to do you a fatal injury, what would my after life be? Sophie, you see how fair and wan he is: he was more robust once, but in my first fit of phrensy while he was trying to save me from rushing into the street and exposing my madness, I dealt him a heavy blow upon the chest, injured his lungs, and he has never been well since.” “But he will be well,” said Sophie, as, with her eyes full of tears, she turned and laid her hand caressingly on Raymond’s shoulder, “he will get well when he has finished his studies and returns home and finds his father restored to health.” “But will that ever be, Sophie?” sadly inquired the unhappy man.