ause. He was evidently plunged in gloomy
reflections; but while I pondered for something to say that might benefit
without alarming him, Hattersley, whose mind had been pursuing almost the
same course, broke silence with, 'I say, Huntingdon, I would send for a
parson of some sort: if you didn't like the vicar, you know, you could
have his curate, or somebody else.'

'No; none of them can benefit me if she can't,' was the answer. And the
tears gushed from his eyes as he earnestly exclaimed, 'Oh, Helen, if I
had listened to you, it never would have come to this! and if I had heard
you long ago--oh, God! how different it would have been!'

'Hear me now, then, Arthur,' said I, gently pressing his hand.

'It's too late now,' said he despondingly. And after that another
paroxysm of pain came on; and then his mind began to wander, and we
feared his death was approaching: but an opiate was administered: his
sufferings began to abate, he gradually became more composed, and at
length sank into a kind of slumber. He has been quieter since; and now
Hattersley has left him, expressing a hope that he shall find him better
when he calls to-morrow.

'Perhaps I may recover,' he replied; 'who knows? This may have been the
crisis. What do you think, Helen?' Unwilling to depress him, I gave the
most cheering answer I could, but still recommended him to prepare for
the possibility of what I inly feared was but too certain. But he was
determined to hope. Shortly after he relapsed into a kind of doze, but
now he groans again.

There is a change. Suddenly he called me to his side, with such a
strange, excited manner, that I feared he was delirious, but he was not.
'That was the crisis, Helen!' said he, delightedly. 'I had an infernal
pain here--it is quite gone now. I never was so easy since the
fall--quite gone, by heaven!' and he clasped and kissed my hand in the
very fulness of his heart; but finding I did not participate in his joy,
he quickly flung it from him, and bitterly cursed my coldness and
insensibility. How could I reply? Kneeling beside him, I took his hand
and fondly pressed it to my lips--for the first time since our
separation--and told him, as well as tears would let me speak, that it
was not that that kept me silent: it was the fear that this sudden
cessation of pain was not so favourable a symptom as he supposed. I
immediately sent for the doctor: we are now anxiously awaiting him. I
will tell you what