d the teeth, instead of
aggravating the evil by their extraction.

'I suspect he has been living on nothing,' said Dr. May, when, in a
lull of the pain, Leonard had gone to bed.

'Papa!' exclaimed Gertrude, 'don't you know what Richard's housekeeping
is? Don't you recollect his taking that widow for a cook because she
was such a good woman?'

'I don't think it was greatly Richard's fault,' said Ethel. 'I can
hardly get Leonard to make a sparrow's meal here, and most likely his
mouth has been too uncomfortable.'

'Ay, that never seeking sympathy is to me one of the saddest parts of
all. He has been so long shut within himself, that he can hardly feel
that any one cares for him.'

'He does so more than at first,' said Ethel.

'Much more. I have heard things from him to-night that are a
revelation to me. Well, he has come through, and I believe he is
recovering it; but the three threads of our being have all had a
terrible wrench, and if body and mind come out unscathed, it is the
soundness of the spirit that has brought them through.'

A sleepless night and morning of violent pain ensued; but, at least
thus much had been gained--that there was no refusal of sympathy, but a
grateful acceptance of kindness, so that it almost seemed a recurrence
to the Coombe days; and as the pain lessened, the enjoyment of Ethel's
attendance seemed to grow upon Leonard in the gentle languor of relief;
and when, as she was going out for the afternoon, she came back to see
if he was comfortable in his easy-chair by the drawing-room fire, and
put a screen before his face, he looked up and thanked her with a
smile--the first she had seen.

When she returned, the winter twilight had closed in, and he was
leaning back in the same attitude, but started up, so that she asked if
he had been asleep.

'I don't know--I have seen her again.'

'Seen whom?'

'Minna, my dear little Minna!'

'Dreamt of her?'

'I cannot tell,' he said; 'I only know she was there; and then rising
and standing beside Ethel, he continued--'Miss May, you remember the
night of her death?'

'Easter Eve?'

'Well,' continued he, 'that night I saw her.'

'I remember,' said Ethel, 'that Mr. Wilmot told us you knew at once
what he was come to tell you.'

'It was soon after I was in bed, the lights were out, and I do not
think I was asleep, when she was by me--not the plump rosy thing she
used to be, but tall and white, her hair short and waving back, her
e