ce, the dreadful struggles
I go through only leave me life and sense enough to prove to
you that I was in my right mind when I wrote _this_."

He held out a letter to Mr. Lacy, who took it in silence.

"Take that letter to Edward Middleton, Mr. Lacy; you may read
it first yourself. If, when he reads it, he forgives his wife
and curses me, I shall be satisfied. Tell him, then, that I am
mad or dead; I shall be so by that time. When you see _her_
again, tell her not to look so pale, or stare so wildly when I
dream of her; tell her not to hang over me, or stand by my
bedside and moan so piteously. Did you say she was dead?"

"No; she is dying; and she is prepared to die; she prays, she
hopes, she submits, and God will receive her, for His mercy is
infinite."

"A ministering angel she will then be, while I lie howling! A
gulf between us! What am I thinking of? Where have I read
that? There is something very wrong _here!_ I beg your pardon,
Mr. Lacy, I will not detain you a moment more. Perhaps you
will be so kind as to let me know the result of your interview
with Edward Middleton? and give my love to Ellen; I shall call
upon her to-morrow."

There was something so horrible in the familiar tone with
which these last words were spoken, that Mr. Lacy shuddered,
and breathed a mental prayer for the wretched man whose senses
seemed to have failed him after the strong and persevering
effort he had made to collect them for one important object.
In a few brief words he warned Alice, as he left him, of the
wild and sudden manner in which their conversation had been
broken off, and strongly urged her to send for instant medical
advice. She did so; and after taking leave of him, and
murmuring in an almost inaudible voice the words, "Pray for
us!" she returned to her post with that sinking of heart, and
strength of spirit, which those only know who feel acutely,
and never give way. She did not inform Mrs. Middleton of the
alarming symptoms which indicated the return of what they most
dreaded. She would not, by rousing her fears, detain her from
the death-bed of Henry's victim; she sent her there, as to a
mournful refuge from the terrors she herself anticipated. When
she had seen her take her departure, she knelt alone for a few
minutes in her room before a picture of the Crucifixion, which
hung there; she offered to God, in a few brief words, the
agony she was about to endure; and then, with a steady step
and a calm countena