er was utterly
confounded by all this. She could not comprehend it. All night she
hovered over the pillow of her husband, giving him medicine at the
proper times, placing the cooling draught to his lips or bathing his
hot forehead. Frequently she called his name, earnestly and
tenderly, but the sound awoke no motions in his sluggish mind.
Toward morning, she was sitting with her face resting against a
pillow, when his voice, speaking distinctly, aroused her from a half
slumber into which she had, momentarily, lost herself. In an instant
she was leaning over him, with his name upon her lips. His eyes were
opens and he looked steadily into her face. But it was evident that
he did not know her.

"Joseph! Joseph! don't you know me?" said she. "I am your wife. I am
here with you."

"Poor Mary!" he murmured, sadly, not understanding what was said.
"If she knew all, it would break her heart."

"What would break her heart?" quickly asked his wife.

"Poor Mary! She said she would never marry"--here the sick man's
voice became inarticulate.

But all was clear to the mind of Mrs. Fletcher. She remembered how
often she had made the thoughtless remark to which her husband
evidently referred. The tears again fell over her cheeks, until they
dropped even upon the face of her husband, who, after he had said
this, muttered for a while, inarticulately, and then, closing his
eyes, went off into sleep.

Toward morning a slight moisture broke out all over him, and his
sleep that was heavy, became soft and tranquil. The crisis was past!
In order not to disturb the quiet slumberer, Mrs. Fletcher sat down
by the bedside perfectly still. It was not very long before,
over-wearied as she was, sleep likewise stole over her senses. It
was daylight when she was awakened by hearing her name called.
Starting up, she met the face of her husband turned earnestly toward
her.

"Dear husband!" she exclaimed, "do you know me?"

"Yes, Mary. But how came you here?" he said, in a feeble voice.

"We will speak of that at some other time," she replied. "Enough
that I am here, where I ought to have been ten days ago. But that
was not my fault."

Fletcher was about to make some farther remark, when his wife placed
her finger upon his lips, and said--

"You must not talk, dear; your disease has just made a favourable
change, and your life depends upon your being perfectly quiet.
Enough for me to say that I know all, and love you just as well,
perha