“You do not know yourself, Hilary: you love me well, I know it; but you would not love me so much, were it not your duty. You would not have twined all those warm feelings round me, had you not been my wife; and you would not have had to suffer the grief which I feel it will cost you, when that day, not very far distant, comes, which will part us on earth.” “Are you worse?” said she, the whiteness of her cheeks speaking her sudden alarm. “It is coming, Hilary; it came slowly, imperceptibly at first; now I can feel its advances from day to day. Can you bear it, love?――we must part!” “For a time, only for a time,” she murmured. “For a time, dear love! yes, that is the comfort, we shall meet again; but you are young, my darling wife! you have perhaps a long life before you, and I shall not trouble you many days. Do not be too unhappy when I am gone; remember your promise long ago, to bear it bravely, and when time has softened your grief, Hilary, do not think that you will please me by remaining unprotected and forlorn. Do not let your respect for my memory, fetter your will or your actions. Ah! you do not like to hear me speak of it, but by-and-by, you will remember what I have said. There, do not sob so; did you not know from the very first, that we must part soon?” “Ah, I thought――I hoped――a little, little longer――!” “And I am glad I shall not linger to see your cheek grow pale with care and watching, to keep you from rest night and day, as I do now; ah, Hilary, you have made me happy, so happy! But would you wish the deed undone which laid me here? I do not.” “No, no,” cried she, with energy, “do not be unhappy about me. God, who takes you from me, will give me strength to bear the loss. Do not think of it. While you _are_ with me still, let me forget all but your dear presence; we will not anticipate sorrow. To-day is ours; to-morrow is in His hands, who will do all things right.” They all saw now, the end was drawing near; Maurice, Gwyneth, Lord Dunsmore, they all noticed the increasing weakness, the gradual change; they left the sick chamber with anxiety, they returned with trembling; they feared any hour would end it all. Gwyneth especially was devoted to her sister; her unceasing cares and consideration could not be excelled by Hilary’s attention to her patient; every household duty was fulfilled, every wish almost forestalled by the thoughtful girl; and yet she fancied she did nothing, and was surprised if fear was expressed lest she should be tired. Lord Dunsmore sometimes expressed this concern, during those short intervals when Gwyneth allowed herself the relaxation of conversation with him, a conversation of which Hilary was usually the topic. “What have I to tire me?” said she; “you should see Hilary; what a wife she is!” “I admit as a wife she is unequaled,” replied he; “but I know one woman who might compare with her.” “Do you? I could hardly believe it,” said Gwyneth, innocently surprised.