t need no words can say.
My mother has had no power to take the direction of anything, her
whole being has been absorbed, first in Raymond, now in Frank; and
not only has Anne been Frank's constant nurse through these five
weeks of the most frightful fever and delirium I have seen at all
here, but she has had thought for all, and managed all the house and
servants. We could do comparatively little, with Rose's brother ill
at home, and the baby so young; besides, there have been eleven
cases in the parish; and there was Wil'sbro'--but Anne has been the
angel in the house."

"I knew--I knew she would be everything when once the first
strangeness was over; but, poor girl, her heart is in Africa, and it
has been all exile here; I could see it in every letter, though she
tried to make the best of it. If there had but been a child here!"

"I think you will find sufficient attachment to mother to weigh a
good deal with her. Poor Anne, she did think us all very wicked at
first, and perhaps she does still, but at least this has drawn us
all nearer together."

And then the brothers lowered their voices, and Miles heard the full
history of Raymond's last illness, with all the details that Julius
could have spoken of to none else, while the sailor's tears slowly
dropped through the hands that veiled his face. It was a great
deprivation to him that he might not look on Raymond's face again,
but the medical edict had been decisive, and he had come home to be
of use and not a burthen. As Julius told Rosamond, he only
thoroughly felt the blessing of Miles's return when he bade good
night and left the Hall, in peace and security that it had a
sufficient aid and stay, and that he was not deserting it.

Miles had proposed to send his wife to bed and take the night watch,
and he so far prevailed that she lay down in the adjoining room in
her dressing gown while he sat by Frank's side. She lay where she
could feast her eyes upon him, as the lamplight fell on his ruddy
brown cheek, black hair, and steady dark eye, so sad indeed, but so
full of quiet strength and of heedful alacrity even in stillness--a
look that poor Raymond, with all his grave dignity, had never worn.
That sight was all Anne wanted. She did not speak, she did not
sleep; it was enough, more than enough, to have him there. She was
too much tired, body and mind, after five weeks of strain, for more
than the sense that God had given her back what she loved, and thi