burne should be so generous,
or what that noble person's letter to himself was intended to convey.
For two days, he seemed restored to vigorous sense; but when he had
once clutched the first payment made in advance, the touch of the money
seemed to numb him back to his lethargy: the excitement of desire died
in the dull sense of possession.

And just at that time Fanny's happiness came to a close. Philip received
Arthur Beaufort's letter; and now ensued long and frequent absences; and
on his return, for about an hour or so at a time, he spoke of sorrow and
death; and the books were closed and the songs silenced. All fear for
Fanny's safety was, of course, over; all necessity for her work; their
little establishment was increased. She never stirred out without Sarah;
yet she would rather that there had been some danger on her account for
him to guard against, or some trial that his smile might soothe.
His prolonged absences began to prey upon her--the books ceased to
interest--no study filled up the dreary gap--her step grew listless-her
cheek pale--she was sensible at last that his presence had become
necessary to her very life. One day, he came to the house earlier than
usual, and with a much happier and serener expression of countenance
than he had worn of late.

Simon was dozing in his chair, with his old dog, now scarce vigorous
enough to bark, curled up at his feet. Neither man nor dog was more as
a witness to what was spoken than the leathern chair, or the hearth-rug,
on which they severally reposed.

There was something which, in actual life, greatly contributed to the
interest of Fanny's strange lot, but which, in narration, I feel
I cannot make sufficiently clear to the reader. And this was her
connection and residence with that old man. Her character forming, as
his was completely gone; here, the blank becoming filled--there, the
page fading to a blank. It was the tatter, total Deathliness-in-Life of
Simon, that, while so impressive to see, renders it impossible to bring
him before the reader in his full force of contrast to the young Psyche.
He seldom spoke--often, not from morning till night; he now seldom
stirred. It is in vain to describe the indescribable: let the reader
draw the picture for himself. And whenever (as I sometimes think he
will, after he has closed this book) he conjures up the idea he attaches
to the name of its heroine, let him see before her, as she glides
through the humble room--as