ounterbalance the
grief which she might have felt. So now she lay holding his hand in
hers, gazing up into his face with an expression of blissful
contentment and of perfect peace; feeding all her soul in that gaze,
drawing from him new strength at every glance, and murmuring words of
fondest love and endearment. As he sat there the sternness of Lord
Chetwynde's features relaxed, the eyes softened into love and pity,
the hard lines about the month died away. He seemed to feel himself a
boy again, as he once more held that hand which had guided his
boyhood's years.

He staid there for hours. Mrs. Hart would not let him go, and he did
not care to do violence to her affections by tearing himself away.
She seemed to cling to him as though he were the only living being on
whom her affections were fixed. He took to himself all the love of
this poor, weak, fond creature, and felt a strange pleasure in it.
She on her part seemed to acquire new strength from his presence.

"I'm afraid, my dear nurse," said he, "that I am fatiguing you. I
will leave you now and come back again."

"No, no," said Mrs. Hart, earnestly; "do not leave me. You will leave
me soon enough. Do not desert me now, my own boy--my sweet
child--stay by me."

"But all this fatigues you."

"No, my dearest--it gives me new strength--such strength as I have
not known for a long time. If you leave me I shall sink back again
into weakness. Do not forsake me."

So Lord Chetwynde staid, and Mrs. Hart made him tell her all about
what he had been doing during the years of his absence. Hours passed
away in this conversation. And he saw, and wondered as he saw it,
that Mrs. Hart grew stronger every moment. It seemed as if his
presence brought to her life and joy and strength; He laughingly
mentioned this.

"Yes, my dearest," said Mrs. Hart, "you are right. You bring me new
life. You come to me like some strong angel, and bid me live. I dare
say I have something to live for, though what it is I can not tell.
Since he has gone I do not see what there is for me to do, or why it
should be that I should linger on in life, unless it may be for you."

"For me--yes, my dear nurse," said Lord Chetwynde, fondly kissing her
pale brow--"yes, it must be for me. Live, then, for me."

"You have others who love you and live for you," said Mrs. Hart,
mournfully. "You don't need your poor old nurse now."

Lord Chetwynde shook his head.

"No others can supply your place," said