Who could have guessed from Hilary’s calm brow, and sweet smile, and steady voice, as she waited on, and read, or sung to her husband, that she had the smallest foresight of the inevitable end? She seemed so cheerful, so even happy while thus employed! and she was happy too. Every day during which her precious charge was spared her, every hour that she was permitted to spend by his side, every sentence of hopeful aspiration, or gentle courage, which dropped from his lips, was received as a heaven-sent boon, a favor, as unexpected as it was precious. “I almost think you like to have me ill,” said he, smilingly, one day to her, “you take such delight in nursing me.” “Can I ever be thankful enough that you are _here_?” was her reply; “think what it would have been had your illness prevented you from leaving Halifax. Had you been lingering there in the hospital.” “Or buried under those walls, which I so narrowly escaped, Hilary.” She shuddered, and then added, “Or had I not been your wife; oh, how thankful I am every time I think of that; how glad I am we married when we did.” “Are you Hilary? _I_ ought to be, I know; but _you_! I sometimes think that it was a cruel and selfish precaution on my part; I reproach myself for having bound you to one, who, instead of being a protector and support, is but a useless clog, a heavy burden, a sad incumbrance upon you.” “Ah! don’t talk so.” “And sometimes, when I have felt a little stronger, and thought that perhaps I might linger on for months or years, chained to this couch, and making you a prisoner too, wearing out the best portion of your life in this dull slavery, I have been tempted to repine, and wish the deed undone which united us; I have longed to give you liberty again! you might be happy but for me, Hilary!” “What have I done, or said, or looked, or left undone, that you should speak so, dearest? Could I be happy otherwise? or is there any thing in this wide world which I could prefer to being near you, at least, while I can be of any comfort or use?” “I know there is not, love,” fondly stroking the head which was nestled on his shoulder; “I know it, and I thank you every hour of the day for the ineffable tenderness which makes me so happy. But, Hilary, you always make a pleasure of your duty, it is your nature to throw your whole soul into your pursuits, to do your very utmost in what you feel to be right. It is this which impels you now, which makes you my good angel, my too-devoted nurse. But were you not my wife, as I should have had no claim, so you would have felt less inclination for a task, whose charm to you is, I believe, that it is your duty.” She gazed at him with her soft, loving eyes; put back the black curls from his temples, and then answered, quietly, “You know better than that; you know it is something more than duty which influences me. A hired nurse might be actuated by duty; _my_ motive is beyond, above that.”