Her disorder now assumed a different character. The excitement of delirium ceased, and was succeeded by a feebleness and gradual wasting, which baffled all the resources of medicine; and such was the apathy and stupor that clouded her faculties, that even her father could scarcely tell whether she knew him or not. In this state she continued for several days; and the physician at length informed L’Estrange that he must prepare himself for the worst, and that all hope of recovery was gone. Madame L’Estrange had, under the pressure of anxiety, forgotten her habitual listlessness, and watched by her daughter’s couch with a mother’s unwearied solicitude. On the night succeeding the above sad announcement, Nina sunk into a quiet sleep, which gave some hope to her sanguine parents, and induced them also to permit themselves a few hours’ repose. In the morning she awoke: her eye no longer dwelt on vacancy: a slight flush was visible on her transparent cheek, and she called her father, in a voice feeble indeed, but clear and distinct. Who shall paint the rapture with which he hailed the returning dawn of reason and of hope? But his joy was of brief duration; for Nina, beckoning him to approach yet nearer, said “God be thanked that I may yet beg your blessing and forgiveness, dearest father!” then pressing her wasted hand upon her brow, she continued, after a short pause, “Yes, I remember it all now—all; the orange–grove—the flight—the ship—the last meeting! Oh; tell me, where is he?—where is Ethelston?” “He is safe confined,” answered L’Estrange, scarcely repressing his rage; “he shall not escape punishment. The villain shall yet know the weight of an injured father’s—“ Ere he could conclude the sentence, Nina, by a sudden exertion, half rose in her bed, and grasping his arm convulsively, said, “Father, curse him not—you know not what you say; it is on me, on me alone, that all your anger should fall: listen, and speak not, for my hours are numbered, and my strength nearly spent.” She then proceeded to tell him in a faint but distinct voice, all the particulars already known to the reader, keeping back nothing in her own defence, and confessing how Ethelston had been deceived, and how she had madly persisted in her endeavours to win his love, after he had explicitly owned to her that his heart and hand were promised to another. “I solemnly assure you,” she said in conclusion, “that he never spoke to me of love, that he warned me as a brother, and reproved me as a father; but I would not be counselled. His image filled my thoughts, my senses, my whole soul—it fills them yet; and if you wish your poor Nina to die in peace, let her see you embrace him as a friend and son.” So saying she sunk exhausted on her pillow.