"Others can take your place. We had new and fresh nurses to come in to-day. Pardon me if I appear persistent, madam, but I was your mother's family physician, and thoroughly understood her condition. Your own resembles it in a high degree, and I warn you that you have stood as much as you can without rest. You are your own mistress, of course, and can do as you please; but if you go to-night you are very apt to fall from exhaustion." "Very well," she answers, wearily, as if not caring to contest the point longer. "Since I do not wish to commit suicide, I will stay at home and rest to-night." "That is right. Your nervous system is disordered, and needs recuperation. You will feel better to-morrow, and may come back to the hospital. As for Mrs. Clendenon and the captain, they may come back to-night." She does not really know how tired she is until she goes up to her room and throws herself on the lounge, face downward, like a weary child, to rest. But, exhausted as she is, it is hours before she sleeps. Nervous temperaments like hers are not heavy sleepers. After long seasons of wakefulness she finds it almost impossible to regain the habit of natural repose. Now she lies quite still, every tense nerve quivering with weariness, but with eyelids that seem forced open by some intangible power, and busy, active brain that repeats all the exciting scenes of the past week. When twelve o'clock sounds sharply on the still of the night she rises, chilled and unrefreshed, and crouches over the dying fire that has smoldered into ashes on the hearth long since. She looks down at it vacantly, with a passing thought that it is like her life, from which the sunshine and brightness have faded long since, leaving only the chill whiteness of despair. Often in still moments like these her young heart rises in half angry bitterness, and beats against the bars of life, longing to be free. "Only half alive," Dr. Constant had said to her, and patient and long-suffering as she was, I fear it had sent a half-thrill of joy to her bosom. Life held so little for her, was so full of repressed agony and pathos, pressed down its heavy crosses so reluctantly on her fair young shoulders, and sometimes even the love of God failed to fill up that empty heart that hungered, as every human soul must, while bounded in human frame, for human, mortal, tangible love. Resignation to her fate she tried sedulously to cultivate, and succeeded generally. Only in hours like this, when oppressed with a sense of her great loneliness, the past rushed over her, with all its sweet and bitter memories, and was put away from her thoughts with uncontrollable rebellion against--_what_ she scarcely dared speak, since a higher power than mortal ruled the affairs of her destiny.