But with the first glimmer of hope, his head reeled. His reason which had stood the shock of despair, or seemed to stand it, gave way before the return of happiness. A wild delirium possessed him. Joy drove him mad, and already drunk with joy--mad with it--he flung prudence, philosophy, resolutions to the wind and drank wine--and drank--and drank. When--where--how much--he did not know; but at last merciful illness overtook him and stopped him in his wild career. With his convalescence his right mind returned to him; but he felt as he did when he awoke to consciousness in Mother Clemm's bed-chamber in Baltimore--that he had been down into the grave and back again. Only--then there was no remorse--no fiercely accusing conscience to make him wish from his soul that he might have remained in the abyss. * * * * * In dressing-gown and slippers he sat--weak and tremulous--in an arm-chair drawn close to the open fire in the cottage sitting-room. About him hovered his two angels, anticipating his every need, pausing at his side now and again to bestow a delicate caress. Virginia was more beautiful since her illness. Her face and figure had lost their plumpness and with it their childish curves--but a something exalted and ethereal had taken their place. Her eyes were softer, more wistful than ever. Through her fair, transparent skin glowed the faintest, most exquisite bloom. Her harp was mute. Her singing voice was gone. But the deep, low tones of her speaking voice, full of restrained feeling, could only be compared by her husband to the melodious voice of the dream-woman, "Ligeia." They recalled to him the impression that the voice of the priest as he read the funeral rite over his dead mother had made upon his infant mind--the impression of _spoken_ music. His Virginia could no longer sing, but every word that fell from her lips was music. As she and her tall, nun-like mother quietly stepped about the rooms ministering to his comfort, lifting the work of preparing the simple meals, mending the fire, and keeping the rooms bright into a sacred rite by the grace, the care, the dignity with which it was performed, no word, no look escaped either save of tenderness, patience, and boundless love. All the reproaches came from within his own breast--from that inner self that boldly tearing the veil from his deeds filled him with loathing of himself.