_17th._—I have made a violent effort to collect my scattered senses, for I would fain write the occurrences of _that_ night. Though the day appeared as if it would never end, yet, as evening approached, I almost dreaded to meet him. The thought that I had dared to clasp him, living, in my arms—that unasked, unsought, my lips had been pressed to his, made me timid as a young girl. This remembrance, even now, dyes my cheek with crimson. Oh! were he then conscious of all, how could I ever, ever, again lift my eyes to his; how could I ever support his glance of withering scorn. As these reflections passed through my brain, I half arose. “I will retire to my room,” I thought, “and leave Mary and Ella to receive him.” Just then there was a ring, and a well-known step was heard in the antechamber. Philip D’Arcy entered, and in the delirious joy of his presence, I forgot all but that he was here once more—restored to life, to health, to hope, to love. He appeared surprised to find me still an invalid, for as he took my hand and pressed it with that soft, thrilling pressure which may mean friendship, or so much more, he murmured words of sorrow and sympathy, though I scarcely caught their meaning. Then seating himself, as Mary served the tea, he addressed some polite and common-place observations to her and Ella. I could now satisfy the hunger of my soul by dwelling on that noble countenance, the light of which had so long been hidden from my weary eyes. After long silence, I said suddenly, “Pray, Mr. D’Arcy, tell me how did you manage to catch that fever?” The formality of this address sounded strangely even to my own ears, and almost as if another had spoken. Philip smiled his old smile, and replied that he would prefer this should remain a secret. Perceiving a somewhat mocking expression on Mary’s lips, I exclaimed with petulance, “But I insist on your telling me—I _will_ know.” Turning upon me a calm and penetrating, though rather surprised look, he said quietly, “I have the gift of healing by mesmeric passes; over fatigued by too close attendance on a patient suffering from a virulent attack of morbid typhus, I saved him, but succumbed to the malady myself.” I cast a triumphant glance at Mary. It was with difficulty I could resist the impulse I felt to throw myself at his feet, almost in adoration. Mary then happily observed, in her usual calm and philosophic style, that “magnetism appeared to be the grand motive power of organic nature.” “Say rather,” replied D’Arcy, “of the entire visible universe. Do we not know that the poles of the earth are magnetic? Is there not electro-magnetism in the sun’s beams? And in fact I have very little doubt that the power named gravitation by Newton, is neither more nor less than magnetic attraction.” “That,” replied Mary, “is both a philosophic and a beautiful idea.”