out tutor or uncle to control him, had just fallen from the mow, and
hurt himself somewhat, and frightened himself much more. The whole house
was in a ferment. He was taken to mamma's room, for he was a great baby
when anything was the matter with him, and would not let mamma move an
inch away from him. After assisting to the best of my ability in making
him comfortable, and seeing myself only in the way, I went down-stairs
again, and took my seat upon the balcony that overlooked the river.

The young moon was shining faintly, and the air was soft and balmy. The
house was very still; the servants, I think, were all in a distant part
of the house, or out enjoying the moonlight and the idleness of evening.
Sophie was nailed to Charley's bed up-stairs, trying to soothe him;
Benny was sinking to sleep in his little crib. It seemed like an
enchanted palace, and when I heard a step crossing the parlor, it made
me start with a vague feeling of alarm. The parlor-window by me, which
opened to the floor, was not closed, and in another moment some one came
out and stood beside me. It was Mr. Langenau. I started up and
exclaimed, "Mr. Langenau, how imprudent! Oh, go back at once."

He seemed weak, and his hand shook as he leaned against the casement,
but his eyes were glittering with a feverish excitement. He did not
answer. I went on: "The Doctor forbade your coming out for several days
yet--and the exertion and the night-air--oh, I beg you to go back."

"Alone?" he said in a low voice.

"No, oh no, I will go with you. Anything, only do not stay here a moment
longer; come." And taking his hand (and how burning hot it was!) and
drawing it through my arm, I started toward the hall. He had to lean on
me, for the unusual exertion seemed to have annihilated all his
strength. When we reached the library, I led him to a chair--a large and
low and easy one, and he sank down in it.

"You are not going away?" he asked, as he gasped for breath, "For there
is something that must be said to-night."

"No, I will not go," I answered, frightened to see him so, and agitated
by a thousand feelings. "I will light the lamp, and read to you. Let me
move your chair back from the window."

"No, you must not light the lamp; I like the moonlight better. Bring
your chair and sit here by me--here." He leaned and half-pulled toward
him the companion to the chair on which he sat, a low, soft, easy one.

I sat down in it, sitting so I nearly faced him.