inting-fit.

It was long before he gave any sign of returning life, and when
he opened his eyes and saw Mrs. Edmonstone, he closed them almost
immediately, as if unable to meet her look. It was easier to treat him
in his swoon than afterwards. She knew nothing of his repentance and
confession; she only knew he had abused her confidence, led Laura to
act insincerely, and been the cause of Guy's death. She did not know
how bitterly he accused himself, and though she could not but see he was
miserable, she could by no means fathom his wretchedness, nor guess that
her very presence made him conscious how far he was fallen. He was so
ill that she could not manifest her displeasure, nor show anything
but solicitude for his relief; but her kindness was entirely to his
condition, not to himself; and perceiving this, while he thought his
confession had been received, greatly aggravated his distress, though he
owned within himself that he well deserved it.

She found that he was in no state for being read to; he was completely
exhausted, and suffering from violent headache. So when she could
conscientiously say that to be left quiet was the best thing for him,
she went to her daughter.

Amabel was lying on her bed, her Bible open by her; not exactly reading,
but as if she was now and then finding a verse and dwelling on it.
Gentle and serene she looked; but would she never weep? would those
quiet blue eyes be always sleepless and tearless?

She asked anxiously for Philip, and throughout the day he seemed to
be her care. She did not try to get up and go to him, but she was
continually begging her mother to see about him. It was a harassing day
for poor Mrs. Edmonstone. She would have been glad to have sat by Amabel
all the time, writing to Charles, or hearing her talk. Amy had much
to say, for she wished to make her mother share the perfect peace and
thankfulness that had been breathed upon her during those last hours
with her husband, and she liked to tell the circumstances of his illness
and his precious sayings, to one who would treasure them almost like
herself. She spoke with her face turned away, so as not to see her
mother's tears, but her mild voice unwavering, as if secure in the
happiness of these recollections. This was the only comfort of Mrs.
Edmonstone's day, but when she heard her husband's boots creaking in the
corridor, it was a sure sign that he was in some perplexity, and that
she must go and help him to wri