There was no possible excuse for fretting now. With so many kind friends around him, he had no excuse for fretting; but his human nature rebelled at his lot, and he made himself more miserable than the pain of his wound could possibly have made him. Mrs. Flint, who sat all night by his bedside, labored in vain to make him resigned to his situation. It seemed as though the great trial of his lifetime had come--that which he was least prepared to meet and conquer. The next day he was very feverish. His head ached, and the pain of his wound was very severe. His moral condition was, if possible, worse than on the preceding night. He was fretful, morose, and unreasonable towards those kind friends who kept vigil around his bedside. Strange as it may seem, and strange as it did seem to himself, his thoughts seldom reverted to the little angel. Once, when he thought of her extended on the bed of pain as he was then, her example seemed to reproach him. She had been meek and patient through all her sufferings--had been content to die, even, if it was the will of the Father in heaven. With a peevish exclamation, he drove her--his guardian angel, as she often seemed to him--from his mind, with the reflection that she could not have been as sick as he was, that she did not endure as much pain as he did. For several days he remained in pretty much the same state. His head ached, and the fever burned in his veins. His moral symptoms were not improved, and he continued to snarl and growl at those who took care of him. "Give me some cold water, marm; I don't want your slops," fretted he, when Mrs. Flint brought him his drink. "But the doctor says you mustn't have cold water." It was twenty-five years ago. "Confound the doctor! Give me a glass of cold water, and I will--" The door opened then, causing him to suspend the petulant words; for one stood there whose good opinion he valued more than that of any other person. "Oh, Harry! I am so sorry to see you so sick!" exclaimed Julia Bryant, rushing to his bedside. She was followed by her father and mother; and Katy had admitted them unannounced to the chamber. "Julia! is it you?" replied Harry, smiling for the first time since the assault. "Yes, Harry; I hope you are better. When I heard about it last night, I would not give father any peace till he promised to bring me to Boston." "Don't be so wild, Julia," interposed her mother. "You forget that he is very sick." "Forgive me, Harry; I was so glad and so sorry. I hope I didn't make your head ache," she added, in a very gentle tone. "No, Julia. It was very good of you to come and see me." Harry felt a change come over him the moment she entered the room. The rebellious thoughts in his bosom seemed to be banished by her presence; and though his head ached and his flesh burned as much as ever, he somehow had more courage to endure them.