was he who told us where the real danger lay. We
thought all would be well. A week had passed, and no fever supervened. We
told Richard that his wife was coming to him, and he could bear to hear
it. I went to her and began to circumlocute, thinking she listened--she
had the same eager look. When I told her she might go in with me to see
her dear husband, her features did not change. M. Despres, who held her
pulse at the time, told me, in a whisper, it was cerebral fever--brain
fever coming on. We have talked of her since. I noticed that though she
did not seem to understand me, her bosom heaved, and she appeared to be
trying to repress it, and choke something. I am sure now, from what I
know of her character, that she--even in the approaches of delirium--was
preventing herself from crying out. Her last hold of reason was a thought
for Richard. It was against a creature like this that we plotted! I have
the comfort of knowing that I did my share in helping to destroy her. Had
she seen her husband a day or two before--but no! there was a new System
to interdict that! Or had she not so violently controlled her nature as
she did, I believe she might have been saved.

"He said once of a man, that his conscience was a coxcomb. Will you
believe that when he saw his son's wife--poor victim! lying delirious, he
could not even then see his error. You said he wished to take Providence
out of God's hands. His mad self-deceit would not leave him. I am
positive, that while he was standing over her, he was blaming her for not
having considered the child. Indeed he made a remark to me that it was
unfortunate 'disastrous,' I think he said--that the child should have to
be fed by hand. I dare say it is. All I pray is that this young child may
be saved from him. I cannot bear to see him look on it. He does not spare
himself bodily fatigue--but what is that? that is the vulgarest form of
love. I know what you will say. You will say I have lost all charity, and
I have. But I should not feel so, Austin, if I could be quite sure that
he is an altered man even now the blow has struck him. He is reserved and
simple in his speech, and his grief is evident, but I have doubts. He
heard her while she was senseless call him cruel and harsh, and cry that
she had suffered, and I saw then his mouth contract as if he had been
touched. Perhaps, when he thinks, his mind will be clearer, but what he
has done cannot be undone. I do not imagine he will abuse w