“I think,” rejoined he, “it at least bears the impress of truth, and as science progresses, who knows whether it will not be ascertained that similar internal laws govern these apparently distinct forces? All true science tends towards unity, as all religions point to the ONE TRUE GOD.” So passed the time, till tea being over, Mary with Ella proposed taking a stroll—the latter laughingly saying that the two invalids might amuse each other by expatiating on the delights of panada, _tisane_, and chicken broth. In the sweet hour of twilight, alone once more with _him_, and awaiting, as it were, the fiat of my destiny, is it wonderful that pale with emotion I lay almost as one inanimate? “I fear”—and the tones of his voice were low and tender as he bent over me—“I fear me much you still suffer.” “I have been ill, very ill,” I murmured, scarcely daring to trust my voice. “Can you listen,” he almost whispered, “if I speak to you on a subject important to me, interesting to you—to both——” I signed assent, for I was powerless now to articulate one word. “During my illness,” he proceeded, “I was in constant communication with the spirit of my Lilian. Much advice she gave, and much she cautioned as to my future; finally, she informed me that it was not her destiny to become my bride through eternity, but that there was one then near who would save my life—one whose tender bosom would ever pulsate in unison with my own, whose character of mind and heart was, from contrast, fitted alone to complete mine—‘but,’ she added, solemnly, ‘make not shipwreck of your happiness. _Pass not by your fate._’” He paused. I could make no reply. My blood was coursing rapidly and tumultuously through every vein and artery. My voice, passion-choked, could only express itself in sighs. My soul seemed bathed in an ocean of hitherto unknown delights. I scarcely dared breathe, lest I should lose a word, a tone. A few moments more of suspense would have killed me. Would that it had been so! Soft as the murmur of a summer brook, thrilling as the song of birds, tender as the cooing of the wood-pigeon, did that loved voice again steal upon my ear. “At one time,” it said, “methought I was dying. I lost all physical sensation. My heart felt like a stone in the midst of my body. My breathing seemed to be carried on through the spiritual lungs alone—when, suddenly, as if from afar, I heard, as it were, a faint cry—a cry of distress: ‘Philip, mine own, do not die,’ it said, ‘Return—oh! return.’ (I covered my burning face with my hands, as he continued.) “At this time I felt on my lips a warm breath—a human heart appeared to touch my own—then all was dark, dark. On opening my eyes, I beheld, as an angel of light, standing at my bedside, your sweet child Ella.”