Days rolled heavily on, and brought no change for the better. The fever gradually subsiding, left the unhappy bride weak as an infant, in body, and little stronger in mind. Her intellect seemed lost entirely, and it became an anxious question, whether returning strength would bring back memory and reason, or whether every faculty of the mind had been for ever annihilated in the struggle she had undergone. Hilary’s sorrow was intense when she heard this sad narrative. Oh! the misery that pride and passion, that weakness and want of principle, that sin, in short, brings into this world. What a wreck had Charles Huyton’s wicked vehemence occasioned! How mournful that such suffering should be brought on others by the willful folly and self-love of one. No doubt good would arise in some inexplicable way from all this fearful train of sorrow and pain: no doubt, to those who received it humbly and faithfully, even this terrible event might prove a blessing. Still it was awful and almost overpowering, filling all those concerned with sadness and distress; and turning to bitter mourning an event which had been expected to make them glad. Oh! how she thanked Heaven that Gwyneth’s sufferings were of a lighter kind, that her illness was so far more hopeful; that her mind was so humbled and purified by her trial. “I do not deserve to be so waited on,” said Gwyneth, in return for her sister’s care. “I am not worthy of giving so much trouble; you are too good to me, dear Hilary!” And her only care then seemed to be to lessen her sister’s fatigue, and repress all symptoms of suffering which might distress her. And days increased to weeks, and she began gradually to amend; her strength slowly returned; her appetite, her spirits improved. She had laid down her disappointment and regret on her sick bed: she did not resume them when her powers of mind returned. The autumn had found her a romantic and heart-broken girl; the spring left her a sober, thoughtful, and yet cheerfully-active woman. One day very early in the spring, before Gwyneth’s eyes had yet lost their languor, her cheeks the pallid hue of sickness, and her attenuated figure had acquired its former elasticity and vigor, they had a visitor at their house, who, of all their former acquaintance, they perhaps least expected to see again. This was no other than Lord Dunsmore, who, instead of dying in Italy, as his friends had anticipated, had entirely recovered and returned to England. Those were right who said that his disease had nothing to do with the lungs; his lordship was now in the enjoyment of good health, with no other remains of his former illness than a slight degree of pallor which suited well with the refined and aristocratic style of his countenance; it gave him an interesting appearance, which distinguished him at once among the many coarsely-colored complexions, thick features, and dumpy figures, so prevalent among Englishmen of plebeian birth.