trong either in body or in mind. He would
not admit, even when treating his patient like a child, that he had
ever been mad, and spoke of Sir Marmaduke's threat as unfortunate.
"But what could papa have done?" asked the wife.

"It is often, no doubt, difficult to know what to do; but threats are
seldom of avail to bring a man back to reason. Your father was angry
with him, and yet declared that he was mad. That in itself was hardly
rational. One does not become angry with a madman."

One does not become angry with a madman; but while a man has power
in his hands over others, and when he misuses that power grossly
and cruelly, who is there that will not be angry? The misery of the
insane more thoroughly excites our pity than any other suffering
to which humanity is subject; but it is necessary that the madness
should be acknowledged to be madness before the pity can be felt. One
can forgive, or, at any rate, make excuses for any injury when it is
done; but it is almost beyond human nature to forgive an injury when
it is a-doing, let the condition of the doer be what it may. Emily
Trevelyan at this time suffered infinitely. She was still willing to
yield in all things possible, because her husband was ill,--because
perhaps he was dying; but she could no longer satisfy herself with
thinking that all that she admitted,--all that she was still ready to
admit,--had been conceded in order that her concessions might tend to
soften the afflictions of one whose reason was gone. Dr. Nevill said
that her husband was not mad;--and indeed Trevelyan seemed now to be
so clear in his mind that she could not doubt what the doctor said to
her. She could not think that he was mad,--and yet he spoke of the
last two years as though he had suffered from her almost all that a
husband could suffer from a wife's misconduct. She was in doubt about
his health. "He may recover," the doctor said; "but he is so weak
that the slightest additional ailment would take him off." At this
time Trevelyan could not raise himself from his bed, and was carried,
like a child, from one room to another. He could eat nothing solid,
and believed himself to be dying. In spite of his weakness,--and of
his savage memories in regard to the past,--he treated his wife on
all ordinary subjects with consideration. He spoke much of his money,
telling her that he had not altered, and would not alter, the will
that he had made immediately on his marriage. Under that will all